


A Fairytale Beginning

by PocketAnon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Enchanted (2007) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketAnon/pseuds/PocketAnon
Summary: Killian Jones, the notorious Captain Hook, has been on a quest to kill the Dark One and avenge the death of his first love for over one hundred fifty years.  But when he crosses the Evil Queen, he's magically transported to New York City, a strange land full of fascinating wonders, the foremost of which is Emma Swan, a cynical single mother with no time for fairy tales, real or imagined.  A Captain Swan Enchanted AU.   (Captain Swan modern AU, Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU.  Romance & Adventure.  Rated T.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When @timetravelingpotatoast proposed a Captain Swan _Enchanted_ AU, I couldn't believe it hadn't already been done (and apologies if it has), and I just had to take a crack at it. A Captain Swan romance involving Enchanted Forest AU, modern day AU, _and_ 21st-century-man goodness? Um, YES PLEASE. So here it is - my take on a OUAT version of the lovable Disney movie (though, like all things OUAT, it's a little darker than the Disney movie; Killian Jones is decidedly _not_ a fairytale princess).
> 
> Special thanks to @lenfaz for letting me run my preliminary story outline by her. Chapter 1 is fairly short, but I promise the rest will be considerably longer. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

The thunder of hoofbeats fills the air as the roan mare gallops down the wide earthen path in the shadow of the needle-like spires of the Evil Queen’s castle. Her rider urges her on, perched in the stirrups and leaning forward into the wind, his black leather duster jacket aloft behind him. The beginnings of a storm are curling on the horizon, the air heavy with the smell of coming rain, and, as accustomed as the man is to being soaked to the skin, he would still prefer to weather it from inside, rather than outside, the castle. Besides, he’s survived quite an adventure to secure the prize that he carries now, and he’s eager to get his hand on the magical compass he intends to exchange it for.

Killian has spent over one hundred fifty years seeking a way to destroy the Dark One, the demon that murdered his Milah and took his hand. A journey to Neverland to search for the answer had resulted in a lifetime’s worth of servitude to the treacherous Peter Pan, but he’d finally gotten the information he’d been seeking in the end. Fate (or coincidence) had dropped Milah’s son, Baelfire, into his lap, and while their time together had ended painfully, their burgeoning relationship soured, it had also left him with knowledge of the Dark One’s dagger, the only weapon capable of killing the fiend. It also left him with fresh bitterness to feed his quest for vengeance, and it wasn’t long after that he’d managed to bargain his way off the cursed island and out of Pan’s bonds and set out to pursue the demon's demise with renewed zeal.

That was six months ago. Locating the dagger has proven a challenge. He suspects the Dark One keeps it close, but charging into the creature's castle without knowing what the dagger looks like and where in castle it is (if it is even _in_ the castle) is suicide, and he hasn’t survived this long by being a fool. Making inquiries, no matter how quiet, is dangerous and of limited use. Few people are willing to discuss the Dark One, and fewer still have any useful knowledge to impart. One of those few, however, is the Evil Queen of Misthaven. So, when she’d sent one of her black knights to track him down and summon him to a meeting a month ago, he jumped at the opportunity.

Rumors of her had proven true. She was coldly beautiful and regal, calculating and cruel. He’d come to her castle and stood in her chambers while she’d sashayed in circles around him like a great cat, a self-satisfied, predatory smile twisting her dark red lips. She’d told him that she was aware of his hunt for the Dark One and could help him. Then she’d told him about a magic compass, a relic which would always point him in the direction of the thing he needed most and which could help him locate the dagger. She had it in her possession, and she was willing to give it to him. He’d smirked cynically at that, fully aware that such a thing would cost him, and he was not at all surprised when her price turned out to be anything but trivial. She wanted the Sea Star, the fabled giant opal rumored to be guarded in the lair of a sea hag, a creature related to the merfolk, though more wraith than mermaid. He’d heard of it, of course, knew the tales that sailors swapped about the mesmerizing colors that shone from its depths and the unenviable fate of the imprudent men who’d gone after it. The idea of pursuing it himself had given him pause, though he’d disguised his trepidation as disinterest, careful to keep an expression of amusement on his face while he blinked lazily at her. Thankfully, when he’d failed to immediately accept her proposal, she’d sweetened the deal, offering him a vial of squid ink which could disable the hag and purring a promise to give him another vial to use on the Dark One in addition to the compass when he returned with her prize. He’d agreed.

Even with the squid ink and her instructions on where to find the hag, the adventure to retrieve the Sea Star had been harrowing. He’d suffered a number of cuts and bruises and been nearly choked to death at one point, but ultimately, he’d succeeded in killing the hag and claiming the legendary stone. The Jolly Roger had made haste back to Misthaven, and he'd secured a horse and set out on the two-day ride to the Queen's castle immediately, leaving Smee and the rest of his crew in port enjoying their time ashore and toasting their captain as the most able and daring pirate on the high seas.

Killian smiles grimly as he feels the weight of the gem, tucked away in one of his many purses, rise and fall with him in the saddle. Despite his gratification and relief at having secured the Sea Star, he knows that, unlike his crew, he can’t celebrate yet. The jewel, while stunning, is just a means to an end, and he’s had enough experience with villains like the Queen to know that their deal could still go awry and leave him without the tools he needs to find the dagger.

The heavens are rumbling when he arrives at the imposing black gate, the mare shying as though she can sense the atmosphere of doom and gloom here. He keeps his seat and holds her head steady, murmuring a low word of encouragement before calling out his name and his business to the black knights standing guard. It seems he’s been expected, and it’s not long before he’s granted entrance to the castle grounds and escorted up to the Queen’s chambers much like before.

She’s facing away from him as he enters, her raven hair swept up elegantly atop her head today, her slinky, dark purple gown dripping in jewels and cut in a way that leaves her back almost entirely exposed to him as she tends to a leafy green plant in a terrarium. She turns at the sound of his footfalls, her dark eyes sparkling with pleasure and anticipation, and sets her pruning shears aside. “The conquering hero returns.”

He snorts inwardly at her snark. “I have the item you asked for,” he announces, halting in the middle of the room, intentional about keeping his distance even as he postures casually, weight on one hip, his hand on his belt.

Her wicked smile widens. “I knew I picked the right pirate for the job.”

“Indeed.” He gives her his most charming grin. “I trust you’re prepared to hold up your end of our deal?”

“Naturally,” she simpers, sauntering over to an ornate side table outfitted with several crystal flasks and glasses. She gestures. “Can I offer you a drink, Captain?”

“Aye,” he replies, though he has no intention of actually imbibing anything this woman offers him. “Thank you.” He makes his way over to the terrarium as she unstoppers a decanter. “I had no idea you had such a green thumb, your Majesty,” he says, hunching over a little to study the plant. “Is this what I think it is?”

She throws him a smug smile over her shoulder as she pours. “It is.”

He hums, genuinely impressed. “They say growing magic beans is no easy feat.”

The Queen sets the decanter aside and approaches with two exquisite crystal tumblers filled with an amber liquor. “Well, you could say I have a magic touch,” she replies, her tone suggestive as she sidles up to him and holds a glass out.

He glances down at the drink, his eye catching a small glass bottle on the worktable next to the terrarium with one of the translucent, milky white beans resting inside. The pirate in him can’t help but contemplate how easy it would be to lift it when she isn't looking, but he knows that stealing from this woman is asking for serious trouble, and he puts the thought aside. “My thanks,” he says accepting the glass.

She taps her cup to his with a soft clink. “To your health, Captain.”

He gives a courtly bow at the waist. “Your Majesty.” He watches as her lashes flutter downward and she takes a sip, lifting the tumbler to his lips but taking care not to let the liquid touch him.

She savors the taste with a satisfied sound. “Did the sea hag put up much of a fight?” she asks, meeting his eye coyly, her tongue poking out to catch an imaginary drop from the corner of her mouth.

Killian swirls the liquor in his glass absently and shrugs. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replies with a smirk, acutely aware of how close she’s standing next to him. 

“Clearly.” The Queen tosses her head and takes a deep breath, the tops of her breasts visibly rising and falling. “May I see?”

He acquiesces to play her flirting game – Heaven knows it’s probably safer than rejecting a sorceress with a known appetite for wrath – so he makes a show of appreciating her décolletage, drops his voice into a slightly lower register, and arches his eyebrow devilishly. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

His answer is too obvious, but it seems to please her nonetheless, and she gives a chuckle and moves away, giving him some room to breathe. Her hips sway as she walks across the room to a chest sitting on another side table between two sterling candelabras. The hinge squeaks when she swings the lid back, and she reaches inside, pulling forth a battered brass compass and the vial of ink. “As promised.” She turns and raises them up so he can see the items before setting them down on the table and gesturing toward him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your turn.”

He reaches back under his coat and retrieves the Sea Star, admiring the way it shimmers in the light one last time before tossing it up in the air and catching it. “I admit I’m curious to know its value to you,” he says breezily, walking over to her with it in his outstretched hand. “None of the tales I’ve heard say anything about it being magical.”

The Queen snatches it from his fingers as soon as it’s within reach, beaming triumphantly. “It’s not. Not on its own,” she answers, running her fingers over the surface of the stone reverently. “But spells sometimes call for certain precious stones, and the bigger the stone, the more powerful the spell.” She cackles and meets his gaze conspiratorially, sneering with delight. “This,” she says, lifting the Sea Star to the light peer into its depths appraisingly, “is the only opal in the world large enough for my purposes.”

He can feel the hairs rising up on the back of his neck at the evil gleam in her eye, but he forces his features to remain in an expression of polite interest. “What kind of spell are we talking about?” He quickly pockets the compass and the squid ink.

She turns and takes a few steps toward the balcony, looking out at the vast forest beyond. The sky has grown darker since he arrived, the clouds coalescing, and rain has begun to fall, the wind whipping the tops of the evergreen trees over so they bow eastward. “A curse that will finally rid me of Snow White and all of her loyal subjects once and for all,” she says, her voice dropping to a deadly tone. “A magical plague that’ll lay waste to her entire kingdom.” She lets out a throaty laugh. “It’ll be perfect. Painful, but so fast that none will have time to flee. I’m not even sure they’ll have time to scream before they’re all dead.”

Killian’s stomach twists in knots and bile rises in his throat. _Mass murder_. He’s committed more than his fair share of dishonorable deeds and killed dozens of men in his time, but the idea of whole towns, of innocent children, falling to the Queen’s curse sends a chill down his spine. His breath quickens, and he stares at the opal as she cradles it in her hands. His brother died to keep a monarch from poisoning a realm, and he’s just enabled another to do the same. Gods, what has he done? And, more importantly, what does he do now?

The answer comes to him immediately, seizing him in the gut and overwhelming any thoughts he might be having to the contrary. He has to get the Sea Star back. It’s not smart. It probably won’t end well for him. But for the sake of Liam’s memory and for the sake of his own conscience (which he is surprised to find still exists), there is no choice. Killian’s mind begins to race, and he glances around, desperately seeking options, because the Queen is almost certainly going to want to kill him for what he’s about to attempt, and she’s well-equipped to do so. He swallows hard. He knows it’ll be a miracle if he can make it all the way out of the castle without her catching up to him, and his certainty that he’s going to die for this grows exponentially. It'll be one of the few things in his life he can be proud of though, he supposes – dying for the same cause that Liam did. Sadly, the idea is of little comfort.

No matter what happens to him, if he doesn’t find a way to permanently keep the stone out of the Queen’s hands, his sacrifice will be in vain. His eye falls again upon the magic bean in the bottle, and an idea forms. He licks his lips. “So when are you planning on carrying out your little plan?” he asks, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “You’ll understand if I want to be sure my crew and I are clear of Misthaven before the misery begins.” He starts to wander back around the room, keeping his pace as aimless as he can manage despite the adrenaline that has begun to pulse through his veins. He’s relieved when she seems too enamored with the Star to care about his movements, and though his hand is slightly shaky, he manages to set his tumbler softly on the worktable and swipe the bottle all in one subtle motion with her none the wiser.

She gives a fake pout. “Well, I suppose I could be persuaded to hold off for a few days,” she drawls. “After all, it would be a shame to lose an associate such as yourself, Captain.” She looks up and fixes him with a salacious smile as he approaches. “You’ve proven yourself quite useful.”

His heart is pounding in his ears as he nods, scratching being his ear and averting his eyes so they don’t betray him. “I try to be worthwhile,” he replies softly, coming to a stop six feet away from her. 

He moves in a flash then, whipping his sword from the scabbard and arcing it toward her hand, the steel biting her flesh and causing her to yell and drop the Sea Star. The jewel hits the stone floor with a thud, and in one fluid movement, his arm rotates back around and he knocks it away with the flat of the blade, sending it skittering across the room as the Queen snarls with rage. Killian sheaths his cutlass as he scrambles after it, and he’s nearly closed the distance when he’s suddenly overcome by the sensation of an invisible noose yanking tight around his throat. He grunts and wheezes, jerking down to his knees, his hand clawing at his neck, though there is nothing solid there for him to grab in order to lessen the suffocating grip.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” the Queen hisses, coming up behind him, her voice infused with venom, her bleeding hand cupped in her magical chokehold.

Spots begin to swim in his vision as her pressure on his throat grows, threatening to crush his windpipe or simply snap his neck. His face begins to turn purple as he trembles and gasps like a fish out of water while looking up into her livid expression, the terror in his eyes mixed with defiance. It’s everything he can do to reach into his pocket for the magic bean and spike the bottle into the floor a few feet next to him.

There’s the tiny tinkle of breaking glass and then a huge an explosion of light and wind as an eerie green vortex materializes in the floor, and the squeeze on his throat suddenly disappears as the Queen is momentarily stunned by the appearance of the swirling, magical tempest and the sudden inexorable pull of its gravity. She yelps and scrambles to keep herself from being sucked in, grabbing at an iron torch sconce on the wall nearby. Killian coughs as the air returns to his burning lungs, his head still spinning on the verge of blacking out. Swaying, he flings himself haphazardly at the Sea Star, his fingers closing around it half a second before he rolls himself sideways and allows the portal to swallow him up, the Queen’s outraged screech echoing in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to let me know how much you liked Chapter 1. I'm so glad you love this premise as much as I do, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 2! As always, I look forward to hearing what you think. Your comments and tags give me life. ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and have a lovely weekend!
> 
>  _Disclaimer: A bit of the dialogue in this chapter is from_ Once Upon a Time _and is not original to me._

Killian is semi-conscious as he’s swept through the portal, his mental faculties focused on keeping the Sea Star in his grasp as what feels like hurricane-force winds propel his body in an unknown direction. He’s vaguely aware of the sensation of freefall and the swirling green light on the other side of his closed eyelids and the loud rush of magical currents that surrounds him like a cocoon. And then, several long moments later, it all vanishes suddenly, and he emerges on the other side. His momentum sends him careening sideways and into an all-too-solid wall, the impact knocking the wind out of him and sending the Sea Star flying from his hand. He crumples to the ground with a loud grunt while the blazing light from the portal rolls and compresses into a single point and then winks out of existence, plunging him into relative darkness. Killian coughs violently and then pants, groaning as soon as he has enough breath. Pain from the crash blossoms throughout his left hip and shoulder. _Bloody hell._

He hears the sound of rushing water to his left. The air is warm and musty, and the most unpleasant array of smells reaches his nose, and he gags and coughs again. He recognizes the smell of human waste and refuse, but there are other smells, too, that he cannot place so easily. Despite the unpleasant nature of the place, he allows himself to lay there for a long minute with his eyes closed. Where in damnation has he gotten himself now? He knows that magic bean portals can transport a person to the realm of their choosing, but he’s fairly certain he wasn’t thinking of anything when he let himself be sucked in. What does a portal do without a mind directing it? Did it just see fit to transport him to this cesspit randomly? Killian snorts. Perhaps the gods have simply decided that this is where a blackguard like him belongs.

He groans again as he shifts his weight a little, noting the echo of his own voice. He wonders if he’s in a cave, and he opens his eyes and blinks, taking a second to allow his vision to adjust to the poor lighting. He’s in a tunnel of some sort, on a perfectly flat stone ledge next to what looks like a rushing underground river. He is relieved to see the Sea Star lying nearby, having avoided falling into the river by mere inches. It’s quite dark, but not pitch black, and as he cranes his head, he notes dim orange light filtering down through two small holes in the ceiling, about fifteen feet ahead of him and ten feet up. The light from one of the holes casts a thin beam down along a wall, and he squints at what could be a ladder rung. He recognizes the roar of activity coming from above, a cacophony of discordant and unfamiliar sounds mixed with the chatter of human voices. The occasional large object rumbles by overhead. Wherever he is, he’s just below a hive of people, and while it’s busy, it doesn’t sound hostile. He supposes he should be thankful for that.

Killian takes a deep breath and hoists himself up off his face, grateful he’s gotten used to doing so without the use of what is currently a rather sore left shoulder. Other muscles protest, but at least everything appears to work. A weary sigh escapes his lips. He’s had worse. Taking stock of his injuries, Killian probes his painful left hip with his fingers. He freezes and swears under his breath when he discovers that his sorest point is just beneath the pouch on his belt containing the heavy brass compass. His stomach sinks like an anchor as he realizes it must have caught the force of his crash into the wall, and he hastily fishes it out. Though he can’t see it properly in the dark, his fingers detect a sizeable crack running through the thick glass face when he opens the lid, and his heart pounds. He has no idea how these magical talismans work. It might be alright, or it might be bloody useless now. More colorful language runs through his mind at the latter possibility. Between this and the business of being stranded in an unknown realm, he’s having a banner day indeed.

He huffs disgustedly as he pockets the compass once more, content to sort that problem out later. Wishing he had a torch, he carefully shuffles around in the dark to retrieve the Sea Star and then makes his way toward the light shaft. He’s relieved to discover that what he saw is indeed one of a series of metal rungs fixed to the wall that lead up toward the small lit holes in the ceiling. It’s an easy enough climb, and when he gets closer, he can see that the holes are actually set in a circular metal panel wide enough for a man to crawl through. Winding his left arm around a ladder rung to steady himself, he sets his hand up against the warm stamped metal surface of the panel and gives it an experimental push, grunting when he realizes how heavy it is. It has to weigh at least six or seven stone, but he does sense a little give in it, the metal grating as the panel lifts ever so slightly. Killian summons all his strength and heaves, praying that he can handle whatever he’s about to find on the other side.

The panel gives way enough for him to get the lip up and over the surface above, and with a few more hard pushes to slide it away from the opening, he’s clear. The wild mixture of noises grows instantly louder, and he takes a lungful of the cooler and less pungent air that pours through the hole before reaching his arm up and pulling himself through.

He is not sure what he expected to find, but what awaits him is decidedly not it. The world above the tunnel is like no place he’s ever seen before. Killian manages to get to his feet and finds himself standing on one side of a wide stone street. Not five feet away from him, the rest of the street is occupied by a collective of strange, horseless carriages rolling along in two single-file lines. It’s nighttime, or at least he thinks it is, though there are so many lights around him it’s nearly bright as day. He backs away from the hole and rotates in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. Tall buildings loom in every direction, and no matter which way he turns his head, he finds a huge magical picture shining down on him. Some of the images are static, some are moving, but all are real as life. Everywhere are words that he can read but which make no sense to him: _Sony. Levi’s. Jersey Boys. Foot Locker. Lancome._ There are people scattered all over, including a crowd that crosses the street together in a jumble. Their clothing is unusual and widely varied, and he’s agog at how scantily clad some of the women are. Though a veteran of many strange worlds, Killian swallows, feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the lights and the smells and the complete and alarming unfamiliarity of it all. Where the bloody hell is he?

He vacates the road and moves toward a less crowded corner of the square to try to get some semblance of bearings and plan his next move.

“Hey! Sir? Pirate!”

His hand falls to the hilt of his sword reflexively, and he whirls around, preparing to meet trouble. His wild eyes dart this way and that before landing upon on a family of four coming toward him with big smiles on their faces. The parents look cheerful but tired, and they have two young children, and boy and a girl with them, the boy practically dragging his father over with a wide, gap-toothed grin and shining eyes. Killian stands here dumbfounded at the sight of such an innocent looking family eager to greet him, much more accustomed to having parents turn away and shield their children from the infamous Captain Hook.

“Hey, can we get a picture?” the father asks, holding up a small rectangular object eagerly.

Killian remains hopelessly at a loss. “Uh…”

“Great!” The father hangs back a few feet, while the mother, son, and daughter enthusiastically accost Killian, embracing him as though he’s a dear friend they haven’t seen in ages. They turn their faces toward the father as he holds his little rectangular object out in the front of him. “Say ‘cheese’!”

_Cheese?_

“Cheese!” the children chorus.

A white light, brilliant as a fairy’s glow, suddenly flashes from the man’s device, and he peers at it in his hand before he nods and yells, “One more!” The light discharges again, leaving Killian seeing spots.

The mother removes her hand from Killian’s back and flutters her lashes at him. “I have to say,” she breathes, “Yours is the best costume I’ve seen on any of Times Square character ever.” She runs her eyes down his body appreciatively. “You look amazing.”

“Quit flirting with the poor man, Becca,” the husband calls good-naturedly. “The kids are supposed to be more excited about this than you are.”

The woman, Becca, blushes prettily and rolls her eyes. “They just _love_ pirates,” she gushes, ruffling her boy’s blonde hair.

“He’s got a hook, Mom!” the little boy says, his jaw slack and his eyes wide as he gapes at Killian’s left arm with delight. “And a sword! He’s like the real thing!”

“Isn’t that neat, baby?” she asks him in indulgently. She grasps Killian’s bicep and gives it a squeeze before pressing a worn green slip of paper into his hand. “Thank you so much for the picture. You’ve made their night.”

Killian nods awkwardly and manages a small smile. “Pleasure.” 

The children wave as the woman shuttles them back over to their father, and the family disappears back into the crowds. Killian stares after them. _What the bloody hell just happened?_ He takes a moment to examine the paper he’s been given, which is printed with the portrait of a bearded man on one side and the picture of some sort of temple on the back, the words Five Dollars appearing on both sides along with the number five in most of the corners. He doesn’t have long to contemplate it, however, because, much to his dismay, he finds himself ambushed several more times by other sets of parents with children and one group of tipsy young buxom women who are as aggressive with their hot little hands when they snuggle up to him as any tavern whores he’s ever met. Normally, he’d be more than happy to find himself the center of so much female attention, but the circumstances are too strange for him to enjoy it. Bewildering as they are, each encounter for "pictures" leaves him with additional dollars, and he smirks as he realizes that it must be currency, albeit the least valuable-looking currency he’s ever seen. Still, the attention he’s garnering is growing by the second, and Killian decides to not risk another groping and to evacuate this very odd place, this Times Square, in order to regroup somewhere quieter. 

He finds a man hawking maps on a corner and exchanges a couple of the crumpled one dollar bills one of the girls had shoved down the front of his shirt for a folded map of this city, New York, feeling triumphant at having finally found a source of useful information. His confidence grows further once he realizes that all the streets are named or numbered and he learns to identify them by helpful the little green signs posted everywhere. It doesn’t take him long to figure out his current location on the map, and he smiles to himself when he notes the building depicted several streets away marked “New York Public Library.” _A library._ Finally, a concept he recognizes. It strikes him as a decent (and hopefully more peaceful) place to start looking for more information about this strange realm, and he sets out, the growing thrill of a new adventure hastening his step. 

 

* * *

 

“Thanks.” Emma flashes the waiter a grin as he whisks her empty dinner plate off the table and moves away. 

Her purse rests on the table to her left, and she pulls out her cell phone to check her messages. Her eyes light up when she sees a text from one of her best informants regarding the skip she’s been trying to locate for the past two weeks. Her quarry, an abusive husband and felon with a rap sheet a mile long, has been a slippery son of a bitch to track down, and she’s had to put out more feelers than normal trying to get a lead on the guy. Fortunately, it seems her friend Will, a former thief and con-man, has come through with a tip courtesy of his contacts at Rikers, where he did time for robbing a prestigious art gallery a few years back. The corner of her mouth quirks upward with satisfaction as she taps out a quick message of thanks. 

She cranes her head toward the back of the restaurant, wondering what’s taking her boyfriend so long. It’s been almost fifteen minutes since Walsh excused himself to go to the restroom, and she’s itching now to get home to her computer and see if she can start making something useful out of Will’s information. Besides, she promised to pick her son up at eight, and she needs to get going soon if she’s going to make it in time. 

She smiles when Walsh finally emerges from around the corner. He’s wearing her favorite all-black ensemble – black shirt, black tie, black tailored suit – and his chestnut brown hair is charmingly disheveled as always as he hurries back to their table.

“I was about to send a search party,” she teases.

He grins, settling back into the chair across from her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I, uh, decided to take care of the check while I was up.”

Emma's smile widens with pleasant surprise. “That’s great. I was just thinking that I need to get going soon. I promised to pick Henry up at eight.”

A wrinkle appears between his brown eyes. “Come on, you’ve got a couple minutes. At least stay for some desert,” he goads. He gestures to someone over her shoulder, and the waiter suddenly re-appears at her elbow.

“Oh!” Emma blinks as a plate is slid in front of her bearing a wide-mouthed stemmed glass filled with two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream beautifully garnished with drizzled chocolate and raspberries. She looks up at the eager expression on her boyfriend’s face and smiles weakly. “Oh Walsh, that’s really nice, but I’m so full I couldn’t eat another bite.”

He ignores her. “You remember our first date?” he asks.

The corner of her mouth twitches, and she gives a tiny sigh, nodding.

“You were being you, so I couldn’t swing a dinner.” He chuckles affectionately. “I brought you here for lunch, which didn’t stop you from ordering an ice cream sundae, which wasn’t on the menu.” He beams. “I bribed the chef. They made one up.”

She smiles at the silly memory. “I remember. I was nervous. Now I’m full,” she says again. 

He reaches forward and rotates the plate slowly. “Will you at least look at it?” he asks gently. 

Resigned, she obliges. Her eyes go wide and her heart stops when she spies the diamond engagement ring that spins into view, positioned on the plate in the center of a decorative chocolate curlicue. 

Walsh’s hand creeps forward across the tablecloth to take hers. “Emma, I don’t want to freak you out,” he says quietly, his eyes shining, “But I think it’s time. We’ve been dating for two years now, and I think we’re ready to move on to the next step in this relationship. We’re really good together. We’ve built a great life together with you, me, and Henry, and I think we have an amazing future ahead of us.”

Her breath is caught in her throat as he gets out of his chair, still clasping her hand, and takes a knee next to the table at her feet. “Emma Swan,” he says, “Will you marry me?”

Thoughts swirl in Emma’s mind as a mixture of surprise and panic washes over her. _He’s proposing. Proposing. He wants to get married._ How did she not see this coming? She swallows, her mouth suddenly very dry. He’s not wrong. They have it really good. He’s easy-going, they get along well, he’s good with Henry, and he puts up with her weird hours and her crazy idiosyncrasies without complaint. Her life has seemed more normal ever since she’d wandered into that new furniture shop in Brooklyn Heights on the recommendation of a friend and met the cute owner who’d taken to her right away, put a rush on her end table, and then asked her out when he’d personally delivered it to her home. Walsh is sweet, straight-laced, honest, reliable, and he’s introduced stability into her sometimes chaotic life. He’s exactly what she needs. What’s not to love? 

Why isn’t she overjoyed?

“Uh, Emma?”

She blinks, realizing that he’s still watching her expectantly and that other people nearby have also ceased their own conversations and are craning their necks waiting for her to say yes. Her head starts to swim. “I—” The silence that’s fallen around them seems deafening, the only sound she hears the incessant banging of her own heartbeat. Her instincts take over, and she pushes herself back from the table. “I’m dizzy,” she mumbles, trying to sound apologetic. “I – I need some air.”

She’s not sure how she makes it out of the restaurant without stumbling on her three-inch stilettos or how she remembers to grab her purse off the table as she goes. The whole thing is a bit of a blur, honestly. The night air is chilly, and she realizes when she pushes her way through the door and gets struck by a stiff breeze that she’s left her coat inside. She really doesn’t care. She moves away from the restaurant’s windows as quickly as she can, still feeling the eyes of the other patrons on her, and, unsure what else to do, she beelines up the block toward her car.

She’s running. She hasn’t run from anything in years, not since… not since she was young and stupid, a troubled former foster kid living a life of petty crime. That was a decade ago. A _decade_. She thought she was past this sort of thing. _Apparently not_ , she thinks crossly. She bites her lip and screws up her face in frustration as she wraps her arms around herself to try to fend off the cold. What is wrong with her? The man she loves asks her to marry him and her first emotion is panic, her first instinct to high-tail it and leave him embarrassed in front of a restaurant full of people. God, she’s a horrible person.

She hears Walsh’s feet beating the pavement even before he calls out her name. 

“Emma!”

She turns, a pang of guilt shooting through her chest as she registers his concerned expression and her coat in his hand. He should be furious, but he looks more worried than anything, and it just confirms for her that she’s a terrible human being who doesn’t deserve this really good guy. Emma glances down, unable to look into his doe-brown eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” she says, grimacing.

Walsh trots up to her, slowing as he approaches, as though afraid to spook her. “Emma, calm down. It’s okay.” His expression softens, and his voice drops. “It’s okay. I should have known better than to put you on the spot like that.”

She hazards to meet his gaze, her features tight with remorse. “I – I don’t know what got into me.” She lets him come close and wrap her coat around her shoulders before drawing her into a hug.

“Honey, if you’re not ready, it’s okay to say so,” he tells her soothingly. “I thought we were on the same page, but if we’re not—”

“No, no, we are,” she says hastily into his shoulder. “You’re right. What we have is really great. It makes sense to move forward.” She shakes her head as if to straighten out her jumbled thoughts. “I just… I guess I just have more baggage than I thought I did.” She sighs and looks back up into his face sheepishly.

Walsh nods and leans back, running his hands up and down her upper arms. He inhales deeply. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. He looks down, pulling the ring box from the pocket of his wool greatcoat and lifting her hand to press it into her palm. “Take this and sleep on it,” he suggests, folding her fingers closed over the velveteen case. “Take as much time as you need.” He ducks his head to force her to look into his eyes again, his face kind. “Hey. I love you, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Emma gives him a meek nod and a watery smile. “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

Even at night, New York is bustling and noisy, with people and horseless carriages everywhere. Killian quickly figures out what seems to be the protocol to cross the street, dictated by square lights at each street corner that flash lit symbols to walk or stop, though he notes that many people seem to disregard them and boldly plow ahead whenever and wherever they want. While other streets are not quite as bright as Times Square, store fronts and other business everywhere remain well lit, and no matter which way he looks, the streets and the city seem to stretch on forever. He passes clothing shops and restaurants, stores that appear to be selling the most wondrous toys he's ever seen, and window displays of sparkling jewels that leave him aghast at the potential wealth of this world that can offer such treasures for sale on an everyday basis.

He’s never actually seen a library available for public use, though it strikes him as a lovely idea. The nearest things he can think of are a couple of large monastery libraries in the Enchanted Forest and the royal library at Agrabah, great private storehouses of books that are sometimes made available to guests of the monks or of the Sultan, respectively. The New York Public Library, it turns out, surpasses them all. It’s a sight far larger and grander than anything he could have imagined, standing out like a great stone temple in the heart of all the glass and metal buildings around it. The edifice is highlighted by carved reliefs near the roofline, and two giant stone lions flank the very broad staircase leading up to the front door. Killian is gratified to find that, like most of the other businesses he's passed, the library is still open, despite the sun being down. A sign by the mammoth set of double doors indicates that it closes at eight o’clock this evening, and a clock tells him it’s just after seven now. 

Like the front of the building, the hall just inside the library’s entrance is stately and imposing, with enormous stone columns supporting soaring ceilings that are decorated by graceful archways and more intricate carvings. It feels more like a palace than a library, and he stands there in awe of it as people pass by around him. The collective hushed voices of patrons echo throughout, creating a low din of nebulous chatter.

He strolls farther in, hand on his belt and his face tilted upward as he continues to study this magnificent place. He passes by another column the width of a great tree trunk and promptly collides with a small boy carrying a stack of books. 

The boy, perhaps all of eleven years and with a mop of brown hair, falls to the ground with an ‘oomph,’ the books scattering across the creamy polished floor. He groans as he sits up and surveys the mess. “Really?” he asks, sounding harassed.

“Apologies, lad,” Killian offers. “I didn’t see you.” He crouches to help gather up the books.

The boy sighs. “It’s okay. I guess I should put these in my bag anyway.” He unshoulders the red pack on his back and pulls open an ingenious built-in seam. He glances up at Killian and wrinkles his little face as he begins to stuff the books inside. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Killian frowns indignantly. “Why are you dressed like _that_?” he shoots back, gesturing at the lad’s blue trousers, black coat, and gray and red striped scarf.

The boy grins, accepting another book from Killian’s hand. “Are you in a show somewhere? Or is this, like, for an early Halloween?”

Killian stares at him blankly. “I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know what any of that means.”

The boy reseals the seam of his pack and slings it back over his shoulder, climbing to his feet. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he chuckles.

“That’s rather an understatement,” Killian says dryly. He also rises, scratching behind his ear. “I’m quite lost, actually.”

“Yeah?” The boy’s face lights up with interest. “Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?”

“A way back to the Enchanted Forest.”

The boy’s forehead furrows, a frown crossing his lips. “Did you just say ‘the Enchanted Forest’? Is that upstate or something?”

“Upstate?” The word is foreign on Killian’s tongue. He shakes his head patiently. “I don’t think so. The Enchanted Forest is in another realm.”

“ _Realm_?” the boy repeats incredulously. “Like, in _Thor_?” Recognition lights his eyes. “Wait, are you one of those cosplayers? Is this, like, live-action role play, or whatever?”

Killian heaves exasperated sigh. “Lad, I don’t know what any of that means either.”

“Henry.”

“Beg pardon?”

“My name’s Henry,” the boy repeats cheerfully. “What’s yours? Captain Hook?” He gives a cheeky grin and glances down at Killian’s hook.

Killian raises an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of me?”

Henry laughs. “No, really - what's your name?”

“Killian Jones,” Killian says, dipping his head. “Though,” he adds with a chiding look, “Few are brave enough to call Captain Hook by his real name, lad.”

The sunshine fades from Henry’s expression, and his eyes narrow. “Wait. You actually think you’re Captain Hook, don’t you?” he says.

Killian bristles. “If you’re suggesting I’m not who I say I am—”

“But…” Henry interjects, appearing confused, “Captain Hook is just a storybook character. You know, from _Peter Pan._ ” 

"A storybook character?" It’s Killian’s turn to frown. “Henry, I assure you, I am quite real.” Frustration begins to brew in his chest as Henry looks him up-and-down once more with increased scrutiny.

“Shouldn’t you have a weird moustache and a big floppy hat?”

 _What?_ “Henry, I don’t know what you may have heard about me,” Killian says, pinching the bridge of his nose, chagrined, “But it seems you most assuredly have heard wrong.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s start again, shall we?” he suggests, forcing a polite smile. “My name is Killian Jones. Most people know me by my more colorful moniker – Hook.” He raises his eyebrows and holds up his hook for emphasis. “I come from the Enchanted Forest, which is in a world separate from this one. I arrived here this evening through a magic portal while escaping an evil queen who was trying very hard to kill me, and I am simply looking for a way to return home.”

He’s on the verge of giving up and walking away, but the thoughtful way Henry stares at him gives him pause. After a long moment, the boy shifts his pack on his shoulder and bobs his head toward the front door. “Maybe we should go find a place to sit down,” he says, “So you can start from the beginning.”

Killian allows himself to be led back out of the library, where Henry moves off to one side of the great staircase and plunks himself down on the top step in the shadow of an enormous pillar, indicating for Killian to join him. Over the next thirty minutes the lad listens to Killian’s account of his search for the Sea Star, the Evil Queen’s plot to destroy Misthaven, and Killian’s escape from her clutches using the pilfered magic bean. Henry’s eyes shine as he takes in the tale, his expression rapt. 

“Can I see it?” he asks when Killian concludes his tale.

Killian blinks. “See what?”

“The Sea Star.”

Glancing around to guard against prying eyes, Killian digs into one of his better concealed pouches and produces the palm-sized jewel. Even in the indirect lighting which bathes the front of the library in a warm glow, it sparkles and glimmers with multicolored radiance.

Henry gapes, the last vestiges of skepticism fading from his face. “Whoa...”

“Indeed.” Killian’s lips pull briefly upward, and he stows the stone away beneath his coat once more.

Henry sits back, leaning on his hands, lips pursed. “You’re not like Captain Hook in the story,” he observes.

“Stories are colored by the people who tell them and are prone to embellishment over time,” Killian retorts. “However my tale reached this world, I assure you it did not come from me.”

“So you’re _not_ a villain like in the story?”

Killian thumbs his lip absently, quickly weighing what and how much to divulge. “I daresay I am. I have done many a dishonorable thing.” He’s not sure why he’s admitting this to a child, particularly to the only person he’s met thus far who understands his situation, but there’s something about this boy – something about his innocence, his candor, and perhaps even his resemblance to Baelfire – that makes Killian feel open or even obligated to sharing the truth. 

“You don’t seem like such a bad guy to me,” Henry says. “I mean, you got the Sea Star back to save all those people.”

Killian fingers one of the large rings on his hand, slowly turning the cold metal around on his finger, the trophy of one of many vengeful executions suddenly feeling heavier than usual. “I’m hardly a good man, mate. I am guilty of many sins you would likely find abhorrent.” He stares soberly out at the urban landscape before him and swallows. “That said, people are not black and white. Not all kings have honor, you know,” he says bitterly, glancing at Henry, “And not all pirates lack it.” He hangs his head grimly. “We are not always heartless.”

Henry considers him in silence, chewing on his lip before appearing to reach a decision. He points a little finger in Killian’s face resolutely. “I’ll try to help you,” he says, “But you can’t hurt anybody here. And you can’t steal. And don’t lie to me. I don’t help bad guys.”

Killian manages to withhold the laughter that bubbles up within him at this boy’s absurd promise. “I appreciate the offer, lad,” he says with a nod. “Henry,” he corrects. “But how exactly are _you_ going to help _me_?”

Henry seems unworried. “I don’t know yet,” he admits, “But my mom taught me when you don’t know where to start, you just have to go back to basics and take it one step at a time. You don’t know anything about New York, and you need a place to stay. It’s like _E.T._ , and I’m your Elliott.” When Killian’s expression goes blank, he rolls his eyes. “It’s a movie. Never mind.” A chime emanates from Henry’s pocket, and he pulls out a device like the ones that people were using for pictures in Times Square. Glancing at the face of it, he shoves it hurriedly back into his pocket and gathers his pack up, rising to his feet. “A mission like this needs a cool name,” he announces. “How about…Operation: Black Adder?” He flashes Killian an infectious grin and starts down the stairs. “Come on.”

Killian stands and follows, again choosing not to examine the fact that he’s allowing himself to be led around by a child too closely. “Where are we going?”

Henry reaches the bottom of the stairs and veers right, heading toward the street that runs along the north side of the library. He points to a funny-looking, bright yellow carriage which is sitting in a spot on the far side of the street near the corner. “To introduce you to my mom. She’s a private investigator. If anyone can help, she can. She can do anything.”

Anxiety and disappointment builds as Killian accompanies Henry down to the street. There is no way the lad’s mother is going to be as receptive to him as the boy is, and he resigns himself to the idea that his encounter with Henry is likely to end with the woman shuttling her son into their vessel and speeding away as fast as she can.

As expected, the figure in the front of the vehicle immediately emerges when she sees Henry approaching with a strange man in tow. Killian’s step involuntarily slows when she comes into view. She’s bloody gorgeous – tall and lithe, a vision of long golden hair, graceful features, high cheekbones, and large eyes framed by thick lashes. She wears a long red coat which hangs open. The enticing, form-fitting black dress he can see beneath it only comes to her knees, leaving most of her creamy bare legs exposed, the long line of them made even more even more tantalizing by the impractical height of the heels on her black slippers. When she frowns at him and narrows her eyes warily, he can tell immediately that she is not a woman to be trifled with, and the overall effect is magnificent.

“Hi Mom!” Henry calls to his mother as they reach the street, the cheerful tone of the lad’s voice suggesting he’s either oblivious to her defensive posturing or just content to ignore it.

“Henry,” she calls back. “Who’s your friend?” She arches a brow at them both, and shoots Killian a steely look. 

_Tough lass._ He chuckles inwardly, now determined to try to win her over. If the fire in her eyes is any indication, she’s going to prove a challenge, and he always did love a challenge. Killian flashes his most dashing smile, pleased when she blinks, and he strides forward off the curb toward her. He barely has time to register the way she suddenly glances sideways and gives a start before a loud, strained screech and the blast of a horn erupt to his right and the blinding lights of a vehicle come bearing down upon him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Killian... The first time encounters Emma in the Land Without Magic, he has a run-in with a car. Some things never change.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the weekend, guys. We made it. The last few days have been really hard for many of us, myself included, and in my weariness, it took me longer than it otherwise should have to finish/edit Chapter 3. But here it finally is. I hope it can provide a little escape to those of you, like me, who are kind of looking for one right now. I look forward, as always, to hearing what you all think and to being able to focus on Chapter 4 (which will include some scenes I've been itching to write).
> 
> Also, an incredibly heartfelt thanks, again, to whichever of you lovely souls nominated me and my fics for ~~seven~~ ten (!!!) CS FanFic Awards (http://csfanficawards.tumblr.com/). Your support has been outstanding, and I truly don't deserve you. Finding out about the nominations was a bright spot for me on an otherwise dark day. Thanks for making a girl feel appreciated. XOXO

Emma gasps as the man accompanying Henry walks boldly toward her, stepping into the beams of headlights as he crosses into the right lane of W. 40th Street. She turns her head to see the black sedan barreling toward him, the screech of brakes cutting through the air as it swerves and skids. The man freezes as he realizes the danger, leaping just before the car reaches him, crashing sideways onto the hood, and tumbling over the passenger side. He lands face-down on the concrete just as the vehicle finally manages to come to a halt.

“Oh my god.” She checks for more oncoming traffic before running to his side and crouching. “Are you okay?”

He groans, the mesmerizing grin he was giving her moments before now replaced with a look of contorted agony. His shoulders shift as he gingerly pulls in his splayed arms and tries to push himself up with his right hand. The motion causes him to wince, and only then does she realize that he’s wearing a hook over the end of his left arm. An honest-to-God hook. Like a pirate. 

_What the…_

The man coughs and pushes up again with a grunt, and she helps haul him up to a sit in the parking lane as Henry runs across the street to join them, his eyes huge.

“Are you okay, Killian?”

The man, Killian, grimaces but manages a rueful smile for Henry’s benefit while he runs his hand down the left side of his chest. “Aye, lad. Everything’s intact. I think I’ll live.” His accent catches Emma off-guard, the smooth, British-sounding lilt as dangerously pleasant as his handsome features and his easy smile. 

She doesn't get much time to contemplate it, as the driver, a young, gangly twenty-something with dirty brown hair who wears the T-shirt of a private delivery company hurries up, looking incredibly anxious. “I’m so sorry, man,” he says, his speech heavily Long Islander. “I didn’t see you until you were right in front of me.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair, distraught. “God, my bosses are gonna kill me.”

Emma eyes him sympathetically before craning her head to look at the sedan. “Is there any damage to your car?”

The young man shakes his head. “Uh, I don’t think so. Couple of scratches maybe.”

Emma turns back to Killian. “Do you want to report this?”

Killian squints up at her. “Report this… to whom?”

That’s good enough for her. Emma gives the young man a kind smile. “I think you’re off the hook. We won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

The youth gapes at her, relief written all over his face. “Really?”

She grins. “Really.” She nods in the direction of his car, which sitting on the side of the road with the hazard lights on. “Better get going before more people see. Just be more careful, okay?”

The young man nods eagerly. “Omigod, thank you, Ma’am. Sir.” He gives Killian one last apologetic look. “Again, I’m really, _really_ sorry.”

Killian nods and waves the driver off as he hurries back to his car.

Henry leans down with his hand out. “First thing you gotta learn about New York,” he says as he tugs on Killian’s elbow and helps pull him to his feet, “You gotta be careful crossing the street. Drivers here can be a little crazy.”

Killian grunts again, rising to his feet. “I see that.” 

Emma taps her son on the shoulder. “Um, Henry?” she says. “Who's your friend?”

Henry gestures enthusiastically. “Mom, this is Killian. Killian, my mom.”

“Pleasure, Milady.” Killian dusts his hand off on his coat in order to offer it to her, but the contact causes him to wince, and he glares at his injured palm. “Uh…” He motions with the hand awkwardly, somehow transforming from suave and weirdly formal to adorable in the blink of an eye, and gives her a regretful smile. “Apologies.”

Her features soften, and she nods her understanding. “Uh, Emma.” She mentally kicks herself for the way her voice croaks a little. _Holy crap, Swan. Get a grip._ Emma hurriedly clears her throat and steps forward to peer at the deep abrasion marring the base of his palm, the skin grated and covered in pavement debris. She makes a face. “Nasty gravel tattoo.”

He looks up at her. “Sorry?”

“Your hand,” she clarifies. “The scrape.” She pulls out the small flashlight attached to her key ring and clicks it on, inspecting his wound under the bright beam. “You need to get this cleaned out.”

Killian hums. “Agreed.” He hunches forward a little and reaches beneath his long leather coat to pull out a flask in a weather-beaten leather cover. “Would you be so kind as to do the honors?”

Emma eyes the flask quizzically. “What? What are you doing?”

He frowns, still holding it out to her. “Cleaning the wound. I could use some assistance though. If you hadn’t noticed,” he says patiently, lifting his hook, “I left my other hand at home.”

Deep furrows crease Emma’s forehead. She cannot even begin to list the number of things about this situation she doesn’t understand. “What’s in there?” she asks, eyes darting back to the flask.

He shrugs. “It’s rum.”

“Rum,” she repeats flatly. “Really? What is this, the 1700s?” She shakes her head. “Put that thing away. Henry, get the first aid kit and some water.” 

Henry runs around to pop the hood on the Bug so he can get her emergency pack out of the boot, and Emma ignores Killian’s offended expression. “Seriously. Who taught you about wound care?” she chides. She waits for him to stow his flask before beckoning with her fingers, and he complies with her unspoken request, his expression unreadable as he lays his hand, palm up, in hers. Emma makes a show of examining his abrasion with her flashlight again, trying to ignore the inexplicable way the warm touch of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. 

Killian harrumphs. “I’ll have you know that I’ve survived far worse than this.”

She snorts, not looking up. “Yeah? Well it’s a miracle you haven’t died of gangrene.” 

Henry returns with her supplies and opens the bottle of drinking water before handing it to her. “Here, Mom.”

She smiles. “Thanks, kid. Grab the antibiotic ointment, gauze, and some of that Coban wrap.” She shoots Killian an arch look. “Hold still.”

To his credit, Killian doesn’t argue further, allowing her to slowly empty the entire bottle over his wound without complaint, his folded lips the only indication of any discomfort. Emma sneaks glances at his face as she pours. She does feel sorry for the guy. Getting hit by a car seems like a guaranteed way to ruin your night. Thank goodness for the man’s quick reflexes; his injuries could have been severe if he’d failed to jump when he did. 

She clears her throat again as she continues to rinse out his wound. “Henry, you wanna tell me what you guys were up to before Killian got himself hit by a car?”

“Hey!”

“Um, Killian kinda needs our help, Mom,” Henry answers cautiously, preemptively cringing in a way that she knows doesn’t bode well. “And… he needs a place to stay for a little while.”

 _What?_ Emma’s eyes narrow, and she angles her head skeptically. She knows her son has a heart of gold, but when she saw him leading Killian over to her car, she thought Henry might be wheedling a donation to a historical society out of her or trying to set her up with a replacement for Walsh, with whom he’s has always been kind of lukewarm. She was _not_ expecting her son to be bringing some weirdo (albeit an insanely attractive weirdo) in a pirate costume home with him from the library like a stray puppy. She starts to shake her head. “Oh Henry, I don’t think—” 

“Please Mom? It’s _really_ important. It’s a long story, but I promise we’ll tell you on the way home.” Henry swaps her the other first aid items for the now empty bottle and gives her a pleading expression that she knows for a fact is well-practiced.

Emma looks away from her son’s big, hopeful, hazel eyes and focuses on squeezing ointment over Killian’s scrape and then covering the wound with clean gauze. “How about you tell me right now, _before_ we let the stranger get into our car?” She glances at Killian as she anchors one end of the self-adhesive wrap to his hand and begins to loop a couple layers of it snugly around the abrasion, passing the roll alternately on either side of his thumb in order to cover the gauze completely. “No offense.” She tears the end of the wrap off the roll and smoothes it down.

Killian grins, his dancing eyes fixed on her in a way that’s giving her unwanted palpitations. “None taken, lass.” He admires her work, rotating his hand back and forth and wiggling his fingers. “Remarkable. Thank you.”

Emma cracks a wan smile and tucks the unused portion of the wrap back in the first aid kit. “Start talking, kid.” She goes to store the kit back in the boot of her car, Killian and Henry trailing after her.

Henry launches into a fantastical story about another realm where storybook characters live, about pirates and an evil queen and a giant opal and a magic portal, and Emma feels her heart sink lower and lower the longer he rambles. She’s usually proud of what good instincts Henry has, but he’s always been a dreamer, in love with stories and fantasy, and he’s clearly been taken in by the charm of this man who is certainly either delusional or a con. She arches a brow at Killian when Henry identifies him as the legendary Captain Hook. Her critical eye flits this way and that as she takes in the details of his costume with a frown, surveying his hook again before noting the sword on his belt and the way his half-unbuttoned shirt shows off his chest hair like some trashy romance novel lothario. Which is ridiculous and doesn’t do a thing for her. At all. 

Henry pulls on her sleeve, and she rips her attention away from Killian to look back into her son’s eager face.

“So can we help him, Mom? Please?”

Emma sighs heavily and places a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Henry…”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Henry admits, “But I think he’s telling the truth.”

Her eyebrows pinch together, her expression pained. She stares hard at Henry for a moment, at the absolute belief and urgency etched in his features. She’s always prided herself on taking her son’s concerns seriously, on listening to him the way no one ever listened to her as a child. Emma wets her lips grimly. “Why?”

Henry’s face brightens, and he turns to Killian. “Show her the Sea Star.”

Killian obliges and produces an enormous oval stone filled with a spectrum of multicolored shards nestled in a creamy white background. He passes it to her readily, and Emma gapes at the way it dwarfs her hand. She runs her thumb back and forth over the flawless surface, having never seen, much less held, anything like it. She swallows. It’s truly stunning, but so is the man standing in front of her, and she’s been deceived by pretty faces before. “Stones can be faked,” she points out numbly, giving it back to Killian.

Henry throws his head back with frustration. “Oh, come on!” He huffs. “Mom. You know there’s something to this,” he says, squinting at her shrewdly. “I can see it in your face. You gotta listen to your gut.”

“What do you say, love?” Killian chimes in quietly. “Take a leap of faith.”

Emma’s eyes flash, and she looks up to fix him with a baleful stare. “I’m not your love,” she replies harshly. “And I don’t do faith.”

Killian sighs, putting the stone away and reaching into a different pouch on his belt. “Then perhaps something more practical,” he suggests. He holds out a small drawstring bag, tipping his head and encouraging her to take it. “Collateral.” He smiles knowingly as she cautiously accepts it, a tiny gasp escaping her lips at the unexpected weight and the distinct clink of coins.

“What’s this?” she demands. 

Killian chuckles. “Gold.” He digs a dollar bill out of another pocket. “I’ve gathered that in this world you use this paper stuff for currency, but where I come from, we use coins, and that, my dear, is a small fortune in doubloons.” He smirks as Emma opens the bag and fishes out a fat coin stamped on both sides with what looks like some sort of royal seal. She holds it up between her fingers to try to see it better, her lips parted in awe. “You may hang on to it,” he tells her. “If you can prove that I’m being less than truthful, the gold is yours to keep. Otherwise you agree to return it to me.”

Emma looks anxiously between Killian’s quietly confident face and Henry’s excited grin. _What the hell is happening?_ Henry isn’t wrong – something deep within her wants to believe, a little seed of uncertainty niggling in the back of her mind, annoying her the way a gnat would in her ear. She nods at the dollar still in Killian’s hand. “How did you get a hold of money?” she asks suspiciously.

He shrugs again, and somehow she knows that he recognizes her stalling tactic. “People in your Times Square seemed more than happy to give me these if I let them gather around me for a picture, whatever that means.”

She snorts. For once, she doesn’t doubt that could be true. She turns the doubloon over in one hand and hefts the bag in her other, weighing the gold and her options. Whoever Killian is, she doesn’t think he’s a physical threat to her or Henry, despite the weapons he carries. That’s something she _has_ always had good instincts about. If he’s crazy, then she can help to identify him and find the people who know him. And if he’s a con, well, she’s not sure what he’s after, since what he’s just offered in gold might easily be worth more than the balance of her bank account. She looks back at Henry. For her son’s sake, she supposes she can devote a few days to trying to figure out what Killian’s real story is.

Her jaw twitches and she exhales audibly, dropping the coin back into the bag and yanking on the drawstring. “Fine.”

Henry whoops with unrestrained excitement.

Emma ignores her son's jubilation. “Does Captain Hook have a last name?” she asks cooly.

Killian gives her a little bow. “Killian Jones. At your service.” He winks. “And yours?”

Emma straightens. “Swan,” she replies.

“Swan.” His face splits into a slow smile as he repeats her name reverently. “I like it.” 

Emma chuffs, feeling slightly unsettled. _Get it together._ “Alright, Killian Jones,” she says sternly, “Ground rules. We have a basement apartment, and we’re between tenants. You sleep there. You may enter our home with permission, but the hook and the sword stay in the apartment. You do anything that’s not above board or I find out you’re lying about anything, we keep the money and you’re on your own. Are we clear?” She gives him a hard look – harder, perhaps, than she needs to, but there’s no harm in reminding him that she is not some helpless… damsel (or whatever) to be toyed with.

His eyes gleam with amusement, which would be charming if it wasn’t also a little infuriating. “Aye.” He nods indulgently. “We have an accord.”

She glares pointedly. “And don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

He chuckles, lips pulled into a smirk. “I would despair if you did.” 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Henry, get in the car,” she orders, stalking around to the driver’s side. 

Henry happily runs to the passenger door and pulls it open, sliding the seat forward and squeezing himself and his backpack into the rear before pulling the seat back into place and motioning for Killian to come. Emma slides in on her side and tosses Henry the coins to hold on to. She watches, one brow raised curiously, as Killian makes a somewhat clumsy first attempt to get in and realizes quickly that he has to remove his sword belt in order to fit into the Bug. It’s hard in this light, but she thinks she sees some ruddiness in his cheeks when he finally gets himself settled, sandwiching his scabbard between his knees and locating the handle on the door to draw it closed. Henry instructs him in the use of a seatbelt while Emma fires up the ignition and carefully pulls into the street. She’ll give him one thing – if he’s a con man, he’s a hell of an actor.

Henry examines the doubloons as they drive and begins to pepper Killian with questions about the Enchanted Forest and life aboard the Jolly Roger. Killian seems happy to talk. He describes his ship in extraordinary detail, sounding proud and wistful (“She’s a marvel. The finest in all the realms.”), and when Henry asks, he confirms that Mr. Smee, Tinkerbell, mermaids, the Lost Boys, and Peter Pan (whom he simply refers to as “Pan” in a derisive tone) are all, indeed, real. 

“So the part about you and Peter Pan being enemies is true?” Henry asks. “Because he cut off your hand?”

Killian frowns, his expression turning stormy. “Pan is the most treacherous villain I’ve ever faced,” he says darkly, “But it was a different demon that took my hand.”

“Oh.” Henry sits back. “I thought Peter Pan was supposed to be a good guy.”

Emma can see Killian’s jaw clench out of the corner of her eye as the passing street lights and headlights from cars on the opposite side of the interstate cast their glow across his face intermittently. “The Pan I know is murderous and cunning, and he delights in manipulating others to bow to his poisonous will,” he replies with disgust. “Heaven help the fool who finds himself beholden to him.”

Henry considers this in a moment of silence as they speed south through Greenpoint. “So how’d it happen, then?” he asks, piping up again.

Killian cocks his head toward the back seat. “What, lad?”

“Your hand,” Henry says. “If Pan didn’t take it, who did?”

Killian glances down at his hook and then turns back to face forward, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the road ahead of them. “That’s a tale for another day perhaps,” he replies quietly.

Something about the way he says it causes a wrinkle to appear between Emma’s eyes, and she glances at him, spying the haunted look on his face. There’s sorrow there. Regret. Loneliness. Maybe even heartbreak. Killian lapses into silence, and she can almost feel the raw emotion emanating from him. _Who_ is _this guy?_

She decides to change the subject before Henry tries to press him further. “Henry, did you get your homework done while you were at the library?” 

She can see her son shift in his seat in her rearview mirror. “Not completely,” he admits.

“Well I guess we know what you’re doing as soon as we get home, then.”

“Mo-omm…”

Her lips tug into a tiny grin. “Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” she admonishes with a wry chuckle. “I agreed to help Killian and bring him home with us. I think you’ve used up all your brownie points for the day.”

His impatient groan reaches her ears. “Fiiine.”

“Let me guess. You saved the math for last.”

He grumbles. “Fractions suck.”

Emma hums, guiding the Bug smoothly through the mid-evening traffic . “Sorry, kid. So does searching someone’s garbage for clues or having to chase a skip down on foot. But we do what we gotta do.”

 

* * *

 

In total, it takes them about thirty minutes of navigating the roads of this unimaginably expansive metropolis to reach Emma and Henry’s home, which is located on a tree-lined street in an area of the city called Brooklyn. Emma pulls up in front of a narrow little townhouse, parking in a vacant spot on the side of the street. She turns the key, causing the little vehicle to fall silent, and extinguishes the lights. Killian is careful to observe how she releases her car door, and he follows suit, emerging into the cool night air and noting immediately how much quieter it is here than it was in the other part of the city. He surveys the front of the house – three floors of white-trimmed windows and a dark front door forming a uniform grid in the face of a light-colored façade. The overall effect is quaint, orderly, and inviting.

Henry pops out of the back seat and scrambles toward the wrought-iron gate, his pack flopping back and forth on his back. “Come on,” he says to Killian. “I’ll show you around.”

“Uhn-uhn, kiddo.” Emma snags the shoulder strap of her son’s pack to slow him as he passes by her. “We agreed. Homework. I’ll get him settled.”

“But I could be quick—”

“Go.” The tone of her voice is firm, but affectionate. “I’ll be up soon. You guys will have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

Henry gives a long-suffering sigh. “Okayyy.” He pushes through the gate and gives a wave as he climbs the flight of eight steps leading to the front door. “’Night, Killian.”

Killian grins back, raising the scabbard he still clutches in his hand in salute. “Goodnight, lad.”

As Henry lets himself into the house, Emma wordlessly leads Killian past the gate and around to a door recessed beneath the front stair. She drops down the two steps leading to the basement door stoop, her keys jangling softly in her hand as she locates the proper one and uses it to let them in. Killian obediently follows when she disappears through the doorway and turns on a light inside.

The apartment is clean, and the warm lights that glow overhead shine down upon smooth, off-white walls and a floor that looks like polished wood. Rather than a set of rooms, it consists mostly of one large space, though sparse furniture designates the different areas – a brown, soft, squashy-looking sofa in a front sitting area, a small pedestal table with two chairs in a dining area next what he imagines is perhaps a little kitchen, and a bed larger and nicer than any he’s ever found at an inn peeking out from behind a semi-translucent floor-to-ceiling privacy screen in the rear. A staircase which leads up to the main house is tucked along the wall across the way from the kitchen.

Emma awkwardly shoves her hands into her coat pockets as Killian sets his sheathed sword on the sofa. “Um, it’s pretty self-explanatory,” she says, her heels clicking hollowly on the floor as she wanders further in. “Kitchenette, bedroom, and there’s a bathroom through there.” She gestures toward a door in the back corner just beyond the bed. Killian finds himself overwhelmed by all the objects that he cannot identify as they pass through the kitchenette, and it must show on his face, because when Emma glances at him, she suddenly pauses. 

_Green._ He can see in this light that her eyes are a lovely shade of grayish green and highlighted with burnt gold flecks, and though they’re swirling with conflicting emotions, they soften as she notes his lost expression.

Emma waves her hand at the devices on the counter. “Do you know what any of this stuff is?” Her eyes don’t leave his face, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Killian shakes his head, suddenly feeling shy and embarrassed, and scratches behind his ear. “Afraid not, love,” he says. “Your world is full of many wonders that I have never seen.”

She stares perturbed at him for a moment before turning away, planting her hands on her hips as she looks around. “H’oh boy.” She puffs out her cheeks adorably and exhales as she considers where to start, reaching up to ruffle the hair on the back of her head. “Okay. Basics.”

She takes him through what she considers to be the rudimentary necessities, namely, light switches and plumbing. She cracks a smile when he tries a switch for himself, staring enthralled at the two recessed lights above the kitchenette as they go on-off-on-off.

“That’s bloody brilliant,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, you can play with the lights all you want later,” she chuckles. “But let’s keep moving.”

He quickly forgets the thrill of the light switch when he glimpses her amused expression, highlighted by rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. Emma meets his gaze and seems to catch herself, clearing her throat and turning her head away. She lays her hand on a curved steel pipe arching over a basin and raises an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Water?” he guesses. “Is that an indoor pump?”

She squints and cocks her head. “Uh… kinda. I take it they don't have faucets where you're from.” She pulls lightly on a small lever attached to the base of the faucet, and it stays put in its new position even as she lets go, water pouring immediately from the faucet into the basin and straight down the drain. She moves the lever back and forth into different positions to demonstrate. “Hot. Cold. Off.” The flow ceases just as quickly as it began.

Killian watches with fascination. “Marvelous.”

Color rises in her cheeks prettily. “Well, at least you’re easy to please. Uh, try not to use the water unless you actually need it, okay?” She glances at a couple of devices on the counter. “Coffee maker, toaster…” She shoots him a look and hastily shakes her head. “Uh, never mind. Don’t bother with those.”

Killian follows as she leads him toward the rear of the apartment. She shows him how to use the toilet and the shower, and this time she allows herself to appear more openly entertained by the rapturous look that appears on his face when she explains that he can bathe under hot running water. “Yeah,” she tells him slyly. “Game changer.”

 

* * *

 

Emma sticks her head into Henry’s room, one hand leaning on the doorjamb. “You doing okay?” she calls.

Her son, hunched over the dreaded math homework with his back to her, swivels around a little in his chair and pulls one of his earbuds out. “I guess,” he says, nose wrinkled. “I might need your help with one or two of these.”

She smiles encouragingly. “Do the best you can, and we’ll go over it tomorrow morning before the bus comes, okay?” She points to her watch. “Lights out at nine-thirty.”

“I know.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Is Killian downstairs?”

Emma nods. “He’s getting settled in the apartment. I left him down there a little while ago.”

“Did you make sure he has a toothbrush?” Henry asks.

She grins and folds her arms, bemused. “A toothbrush?”

“I mean, I never thought about whether pirates brush, but he probably wouldn’t have such nice teeth if he didn’t, right?” Henry points out matter-of-factly, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to have. “But I doubt he brought a toothbrush with him. I mean,” he says, “It’s not like he was _planning_ on coming to our world and getting stranded here.”

Emma folds her lips, resisting both the urge to laugh at her son’s bizarre train of thought and her desire to argue again that Killian is less likely to be a fictional pirate captain than he is a mental health patient. “Right.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping a bit with resignation. “Fine. I’ll go make sure he has a toothbrush.” She points. “You get back to the books.”

Satisfied, Henry nods agreeably and turns back to his homework, and she spins on her heel and pauses, wondering what toiletries a man fancying himself a pirate might need, before heading for the bathroom.

She ends up collecting a couple of extra towels, a spare roll of toilet paper, toothpaste, a new toothbrush, shampoo, and a bar of soap, tossing the items into a small woven rush basket. A thought occurs, and Emma detours to her bedroom and digs a package out from the recesses of her small bedroom closet. She bites her lip, a little conflicted, as she pulls out the pajama set, fingering the fabric. It’s the only adult male clothing she has in the house, and she’d intended this to be a gift for Walsh, but she supposes it’s worth the sacrifice if it keeps Killian from having an excuse to sleep in his underwear (if he wears underwear)… or less. She squeezes her eyes shut. _Stop it, Emma._ She should not be contemplating what their disturbed guest looks like without his clothes on. She may have agreed to let him use the apartment and to help investigate his situation further, but he’s still a strange man who’s probably suffering from weird, if harmless, delusions, and she has a serious boyfriend. _Who's asked you to marry him_ , she reminds herself with an inward groan. She puts the thought aside, not wanting to deal with it right now. Emma huffs and squares her shoulders, hastily tossing the pajamas into the basket on top of the towels and toiletries and heads downstairs, hollering over her shoulder to Henry that she’s going down to the apartment.

“Hello?” she calls, descending the staircase, the wood cool against her bare feet. “Killian?”

“Back here, love!” His voice comes from the rear, and she follows it.

“I brought you some stuff I thought you might—” Emma halts in her tracks as she walks past the privacy screen into the sleeping area and glances up. The bathroom door is wide open, affording her a full view of Killian standing next to the shower… in nothing but a towel. He’s facing away from her and fiddling with the shower handle, and her heart begins to race, a series of expletives firing off in rapid succession in her mind. 

The white cotton is slung low around his hips, and the light from the vanity sconce throws subtle shadows that highlight the contours of the muscles in his back. As he rotates toward her, she can see that the chest hair she absolutely did not find attractive earlier dusts his well-defined pecs and narrows into a line that trails downward over his flat stomach, disappearing below the towel’s edge. Silvery scars and bruises of various sizes are scattered across his torso, a particularly large and nasty explosion of purplish-blue partly visible over his left side. His arms are muscular, the right a little more so than the left, and she glimpses a flourishing, medium-sized black and red tattoo halfway up his right forearm. Any doubts she had about whether the hook is a real prosthetic disappear when she also notes the stump at his left wrist and the faintly shiny imprint of straps circling his left forearm that she presumes are from the brace he wears. 

He notices her, his face spreading into a impish grin, and Emma swears some more under her breath as two thoughts come roaring to the forefront: She’s no expert, but Killian Jones’ body pretty much screams “fairytale pirate” (amongst other things). And she is in over her head on so many levels.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Swan,” he says smugly, as though he can read all of her unwanted thoughts. “You can come in.”

Emma rolls her eyes, willing her face not to flush. She’s a big girl. She can handle one guy and his massive ego, ridiculous sex appeal be damned. “I, um, thought you might need these,” she says, clearing her throat and bringing her haul into the bathroom. She is careful to avoid looking at him as she sets the basket down on the vanity counter and walks him through the contents. 

When she gets to the pajamas, she shakes out the gray T-shirt and the blue pants so he can see. “I hope these fit okay. Thought you might like to sleep in something other than black leather.”

His flirtatious smile fades as Killian has the decency to look touched. “It’s a grand gift. Very thoughtful. Thank you.” He points at the logo that graces the shirt. “What are ‘mets’?”

She chuckles. “The New York Mets. It’s a baseball team.” She glances back up and sees him looking at her warmly, his steel blue eyes shining with gratification. “What?”

He smiles almost shyly. “It’s nothing, Swan. It’s just that you have a lovely smile. I quite prefer it to all the scowling.”

She gives a fake scowl on cue. “Careful there, _Captain_ ,” she warns, narrowing her eyes playfully and risking a look below his neck long enough to wave her index finger at the giant bruise on his flank. “You have all sorts of sore places I can make you hurt.”

Killian laughs, a low rumble that reverberates from his chest and makes her stomach flip flop. “I like you, Swan,” he says, dimples flashing. “You’d make one hell of a pirate.”

Emma rolls her eyes and forces herself to take a step back, but not before a self-satisfied grin curves her lips. She crosses her arms. “You got pretty banged up by that car,” she observes.

“I’m fairly certain these aren’t all from the car.” Killian turns back toward the shower, sticking his fingers beneath the water to re-check the temperature. “I realize you don’t have any experience with this sort of thing, but one does not defeat a sea hag, escape a murderous queen, and travel between realms by magic portal without a few marks to show for it.”

Emma drops her eyes to her toes and nods awkwardly, still not sure what she thinks about his story. “Right. That.” She takes a deep breath and angles herself toward the door. “Well, I should go. I have work to do.” She bites the corner of her lip, nodding toward his bandage. “You, um, you should replace that dressing with a dry one after your shower. I’ve got the supplies upstairs. Just knock on the stair door.” Arms still folded over her chest, she absently rubs her bicep with one hand and shoots him a last quick smile before ducking her head and walking away.

“Swan.”

She pauses and turns.

Killian gives her a nod, a solemn expression of gratitude on his face without a trace of bravado. “Thank you.”

The corner of Emma’s mouth lifts as she nods back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to keep you guys waiting on this. This monster of a chapter completely kicked my butt, and I stayed up so late every night last week trying to get it done by my silly, self-imposed deadline that I'm terribly sleep-deprived right now and spiraling into that place where I'm headachey and coasting on caffeine fumes and second-guessing everything I've written. All of this is to say thank you for your patience with me! And sorry for any typos. LOL. I really hope it reads alright and that you enjoy it. And thanks ahead of time, as always, for your comments! They really keep me going on days like today when I feel like a hack. 
> 
> I'm going to go pass out now (well, after the usual adulting nonsense). I'll try to get Chapter 5 out in a timely fashion, but we'll have to see how it goes with the holiday. For those of you in the U.S., Happy Thanksgiving! And no matter where you are, I hope you all have a lovely week!

The hot shower is one of the best things he’s experienced in a long time, and Killian lingers under the heavenly spray long after he’s done using the pleasant-smelling soap and shampoo to wash all traces of sea, blood, sweat, and grime from his body. His fingers prune while he stands with his back to the water, relishing the warmth cascading over his skin and reflecting on his current situation. He has no idea how (or if) he’ll ever get home or what will become of his ship if he doesn’t, but he knows there are things to be grateful for. He’s still alive, and his injuries are minor. The Sea Star is out of the Evil Queen’s grasp, and she cannot cast her curse without it. And he’s made new allies in Emma Swan and her son. 

_Emma._ It’s been ages since a woman intrigued him as much as she does. She’s had his full attention since before they even exchanged words, the lass so much of a distraction that he didn't notice that bloody car when he walked across the street like an idiot, only focused on making a good first impression. Killian cringes, his embarrassment seizing him anew. He’s a bloody buggering fool. He can only thank the gods that despite his inanity, she’s been kind – kind and shrewd and witty and even charming (once she deigned to crack a smile). Fortune has, indeed, been in his favor.

He dries himself with the soft towel and finds that the sleep clothes fit nicely, the trousers in particular the most comfortable things he thinks he’s ever had the pleasure to wear next to his bare skin. He figures out how to open the toothpaste tube, studying the ingenious twist-off cap while he brushes his teeth, and then, finally feeling completely clean for the first time in recent (or even distant) memory, he leaves the bathroom, taking pleasure in flicking off the light switch.

He eyes the damp bandages wrapped around his hand and flexes his fingers with a smile. As much as the injury stings, having Emma help him with his wounds more than makes up for the inconvenience. And, he thinks, strapping his unadorned brace back on, as much as he dislikes not being allowed to wear his hook in their home, getting to stay here with her and Henry makes up for that too.

He climbs the staircase with anticipation and raps on the door with his brace. He hears muffled movement in the distance, and a couple seconds later, quiet footsteps approach. There’s the slide of a heavy bolt lock, and the doorknob jiggles a little before it turns and swings open to reveal Emma standing on the other side.

She’s changed her clothes too, having traded the alluring black dress for her own sleep ensemble. Loose, flowing trousers in a pink and gray tartan peek out from underneath an overlarge, gray long-sleeved shirt with a wide neckline that sits fetchingly askew on her slender frame and gives him a tempting glimpse of her bare shoulder beneath an errant lock of blonde hair. There’s something very pretty and soft and domestic about her appearance as she offers him an almost shy smile. “Hi.”

He grins. “Hello, Swan.”

Her gaze sweeps down over him, taking in his wet hair and pajamas, and she appears pleasantly satisfied. “Um, feel better after your shower?” she asks, taking a step back to let him through.

Killian chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. “The shower rivals actual magic, love. I feel a bit like a new man.”

She concurs with a hum and closes the door while he gets his first look around her home. They’re standing in another kitchen, larger and airier than the one down in the apartment. A white marble counter runs along the left wall, interrupted by a wide white basin (“sink” was the term she’d used downstairs) with a faucet and some sort of metal cooking apparatus topped with four iron grates. White painted cabinets flank the counter above and below. Tiny green tiles that look like sea glass cover the wall between the counter and the upper cabinets, and in the center of the kitchen is a freestanding, rectangular counter bearing a bowl of fruit and equipped with two tall barstools that mark it as an eating area. 

A window and a back door sit along the far wall, and the kitchen opens to his right to a larger dining area set with a long wood table and an overhanging light that resembles a giant glowing drum. An assortment of papers and a hinged, rectangular device the size of book sit next Emma’s purse on the far side of the table, and the wall on the right features a fireplace with a painted white mantle. 

Emma motions for him to follow as she retreats to the rear corner of the kitchen to get wound care supplies out of an upper cabinet. Killian pulls up close beside her and holds his hand out, gratified by the way his unexpected proximity causes her cheeks to wash pink. She glances, wide-eyed, up into his face like an awestruck angel for a full second before she manages to recover, blinking rapidly and forcing her attention down to his wound. She clears her throat and begins to unwind the bandage, stealing a glance at his forearm. “Who’s Milah, in the tattoo?” she asks.

Milah’s name is like a shower of ice upon him, extinguishing his smile instantaneously. Killian feels his shoulders tense, and he looks away, pretending to gaze out the window, though he can see little of the darkened backyard beyond. He swallows hard. “Someone from long ago,” he answers grimly.

He can feel Emma’s eyes back upon his face. She considers him in silence as she removes the old dressing and sets it aside. “She’s gone?” she says at last. It’s more an observation than a question.

His jaw twitches sideways, and he licks his lips, looking back down at his hand. “Aye.”

Emma begins to apply fresh ointment and gauze. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. 

Something in her voice draws his gaze back up to meet hers, and he's surprised to see, not only sympathy, but some of his own pain reflected back at him in her expression.

Now it’s her turn to look away. Emma reaches for the self-adhesive wrap. She takes a breath as if to say something, but hesitates, conflicted. “Did you lose her at the same time you lost your hand?” she finally asks.

It’s the second question from her to catch him off-guard. Killian’s frown deepens. “What makes you think that?” he asks somberly.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly, looking slightly embarrassed and giving a little apologetic shake of her head. She begins to apply the new bandage. “It’s just… You got the same look on your face in the car when Henry asked you about your hand.”

Her answer fills him with mixed emotions, and he narrows his eyes. “You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?”

Her lips pull into a weak smile, and she shrugs, tearing the wrap off the roll. “Helps in my line of work,” she replies.

Killian cocks his head, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. “And what’s that, Swan?”

Emma reaches up to return the wound care supplies to the cabinet. “I find people,” she says simply, closing the cabinet door. “I do private investigations and a lot of bail bonds work.” She notes his blank expression. “It’s, um, like bounty hunting,” she explains, balling up the used bandages and sliding past him to toss them into a refuse bin in the cabinet beneath the sink.

He arches an eyebrow. He’s known a few bounty hunters in his time, cutthroat men of dubious morals, but Emma strikes him as having very little in common with any of them… apart from intense stubbornness, he supposes wryly.

She washes her hands, glancing over her shoulder and picking up on his skepticism. “Um, here. Like this,” she says, drying hastily on a small towel. She walks over to the dining table and whisks a piece of paper off the surface, holding up a picture of a thickset, middle-aged, bald man with heavy black eyebrows, dull brown eyes, a hawkish nose, and a square jaw. “This guy? Joe Rathburn. History of gun trafficking and armed robbery. Went to prison this time around for repeatedly assaulting his ex-wife," she tells him. "He got out on parole in the spring but stopped checking in with his parole officer about a month ago. The ex-wife is scared that he’s going to come after her and the kids, and the police haven’t had much luck, so she hired me to help find him.” She sets the picture back on the table and gestures at the papers. “I’ve been trying to track him down for two weeks.”

Killian hums thoughtfully. “That sounds like dangerous work, Swan.”

“Really?” She snorts. “You’re going to give me that story about pirating and Peter Pan and the sea hag and the Evil Queen and then tell me that what _I_ do is dangerous?” She crosses her arms expectantly and leans back against the table. 

A small smile parts his lips. “Point taken.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” she says. “I only have to find the guy. If things look like they’re going to get dicey, I just tip off the police and let them handle it. No one has to take any stupid risks.” He relaxes a bit, and she shrugs dismissively. “Besides, most of my cases just involve petty crooks or cheating spouses or deadbeat parents. Occasionally I have to literally run a target down, and sometimes someone will try to throw a punch, but most of the time it’s not too messy.” She straightens and gives a small toss of her head. “I can take care of myself.”

He nods. The idea of Emma tangling with the dead-eyed man in the picture still doesn’t sit comfortably with him, but he tries to push the thought aside. As attracted as he is to her, he barely knows her, and it’s none of his business, he tells himself. That thought doesn’t quite sit well with him either.

Emma pushes away from the dining table and heads back toward the kitchen. “That, um, that bruise on your side looked pretty bad,” she comments. “Do you want to ice it?” She walks over to a tall metal cabinet in the corner of the kitchen adjacent to the basement door and pulls open a drawer on the bottom. A light glows brightly from the inside, as though a sunny world exists within this strange box, and she reaches down and pulls out a funny-looking packet of blue jelly before sliding the drawer shut. 

His bewildered expression makes her chuckle. “Um, we’ll cover refrigerators later,” she promises, summoning him with a sideways tip of her head. “Come here.” From a small basket atop the mysterious refrigerator, she retrieves what looks like a wide black sash, and she shows him how the pack of jelly slides easily into a pouch sewn into the middle. She then demonstrates how the ends of the sash stick to one another when pressed together. “See?” she asks, pulling them apart again with a terrific ripping sound. “Velcro.” 

“Remark…able,” he says, the last part of the word trailing off when she suddenly comes toward him, moving in to stand so close that her toes threaten to brush his. He looks down at the mere inches between them and then back up at her with an exhilarated grin. “Well hello, Swan,” he rumbles, arching an eyebrow suggestively. “I rather like where this is going.”

She rolls her green eyes yet again. “Relax, Casanova,” she retorts, holding the sash up demonstratively with an end in each hand. “I’m helping you put it on.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever excuse you need to—” His sentence ends in a strangled little grunt as Emma narrows her eyes, abruptly palms the squishy pack, and slaps it none-too-gently up against his tender bruise. The discomfort shocks him as much as the sudden cold, and he gives her a hard glare, but she merely smirks back at him, the devil in her gloriously smug smile. Killian huffs, a glint of admiration in his eye. _She’d make a hell of a pirate, indeed._

Satisfied with her retaliation, she continues to press the ice pack to his side patiently while the chill seeps straight through his shirt and to his flank. His posture relaxes a little as the constant ache he’s had since the underground tunnel begins to fade, and a small sigh sneaks past his lips.

She chuckles knowingly. “Better?” 

He nods.

Emma looks back down at the pack. “Okay. Um…” She pulls it away in order to take up the ends of the straps in her hands again and then closes what little distance remains between them, her breath warm on the base of his neck when she reaches around to fasten the sash snugly around his waist. She chances to glance up, and Killian’s heart pounds as their eyes meet. A flicker of something passes between them, something he cannot immediately name, and when Emma hastily ducks her head and retreats, the only evidence that it was anything other than a figment of his imagination is the color that rises in her cheeks. 

She clears her throat. “There you go.”

Killian tears his eyes away from her beautiful blush in order to look down at the ice pack. He rotates back and forth at the waist to admire how it moves with him. “That’s, um, that’s extraordinary, love,” he says. “Thank you.”

Emma bobs her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and crossing her arms tight in front of her chest. “That should stay cold for maybe twenty minutes. You, uh, you can even wear it to bed if you want,” she suggests.

A chime comes from the direction of the dining table, and she turns her head toward the sound.

He takes his cue. “I suppose I should get some rest,” he says quietly, angling toward the basement stair.

She turns back to him and nods, chewing on her lip. “Right. You’ve, uh, you’ve had quite the day.” 

Killian opens the door and takes the first step down. He rotates his shoulders to look back up at her, a fond smile playing on his mouth. “Goodnight, Milady.”

Emma’s long lashes flutter as she chuffs, meeting his eyes again with a soft little grin. "'Night, Killian."

 

* * *

 

Emma watches Killian descend back down into the apartment before she closes the door behind him. She rotates slowly and leans her back against it, her eyes staring blankly at the floor as she tries to figure out what just happened. Earlier this evening she’d have sworn she was a smart woman who knew better than to engage a delusional stranger. Yet here she is, a soft-hearted sucker who brought said stranger home, gave him Walsh’s pajamas (which, admittedly, he makes look _really_ good), fussed over his wound, and then offered him a wearable ice pack she should have realized he would need help putting on. She clamps her eyes shut, her head falling into her hands while she suppresses a frustrated groan. She’s such an idiot. And now all she can think of is how he smells of soap, how his laughter reverberates low in his chest, how his graceful fingers are covered with calluses, how appealing and disarming he looks when he’s wearing soft, touchable cotton with his damp hair draped in locks over his forehead, and how his blue-gray eyes can be tumultuous one moment and charm a smile from her the next. Emma rubs her temples. She can't do this. She has a boyfriend - a _great_ boyfriend. What is she doing getting weak in the knees over a random charity case with a nice smile?

Her phone chimes again, and Emma raises her head wearily, sighing. _Right. Work._ She should get back to work. It’s nearly ten-thirty, but she still has some time to look into that new lead from Will before she needs to turn in for the night. And frankly, she thinks, she needs to work just to clear her head. 

She half-heartedly locks the basement door and goes to the dining table to fish her phone out of her purse. There’s a new text waiting from her friend Detective Hurley down at the Thirteenth telling her that there haven’t been any recent reports of missing mental health patients, or missing persons in general, that match Killian’s description. Emma texts back a thanks and a follow-up request to search the criminal database too, if he’d be so kind, before relocking her phone.

She eyes the other contents of her purse hesitantly before pulling out Killian’s bag of gold coins and Walsh’s engagement ring box. The items sit next to one another on her table like a succinct summation of the absolutely preposterous day she’s just had, and she wonders for perhaps the tenth time tonight whether this whole evening isn’t just one ridiculous dream. Emma stares at the objects helplessly, at a loss for what to do about the man who gave her either one, before she gruffly gathers them up and goes to secure them in the wall safe which sits in the living room, concealed behind a large framed picture of the city skyline. She punches in the pass code and yanks the safe open, shoveling the valuables onto the upper shelf next to her gun and pushing the weighty metal door shut again without a second look, the mechanism locking while she swings the picture frame back into place.

Another sigh escapes her as Emma sinks into the dining chair in front of her open laptop. _Okay. Focus._ She rereads the text from her informant.

_Friend at Rikers says your guy likes chess. Used to talk about the Central Park chess house sometimes. You're welcome. Tell the cops where to send my commendation._

Emma smirks. Will always was a smartass. She Googles the visitor's information for the Central Park Chess and Checkers House. People play at the outdoor tables at all times of day, but she makes a note of the House’s opening hours in order to question the staff before double-checking the location on a map. Then she opens her email. Her friend, Tom Riley, volunteers for the auxiliary branch of the Parks Enforcement Patrol, and she sends him a note, attaching Rathburn’s headshot and asking him and his fellow officers to be on the lookout, particularly in the area of the park around the chess house. If there's one thing she knows about finding people in New York, it's the value of a few extra sets of eyes and ears.

Emma sits back, pursing her lips with mild satisfaction. It’s not a lot to go on, but it’s the first fresh lead she’s had in the better part of a week, and it’ll have to be enough for now.

 

* * *

 

Killian trudges toward his bed, weariness from the day’s events finally beginning to catch up to him. He runs his hand over the linens appreciatively and pulls back the poofy, quilted cloud of a blanket. The mattress is soft and the sheets smooth; where he’s from, a luxury like this would be reserved for royalty. He switches off the bedside light and lays himself down carefully. The ice pack continues to soothe his flank, but many of his other muscles still pull and ache, and he gives a little groan as he reclines, savoring the perfect cushion of the pillow beneath his head. He closes his eyes. _Bloody hell. What a day._

His thoughts wander back to the Enchanted Forest. No doubt his crew is still enjoying their shore leave, apt to remain blissfully unaware, until he fails to return the day after tomorrow, that anything unexpected has happened to him. He clenches his jaw, wondering how long it will be before they give up on waiting and choose to take the Jolly back out to sea without him. Smee is loyal but pragmatic, and without a way to locate his captain, even _he_ would not maintain an endless vigil, especially once the coffers ran low. 

A far more disturbing thought occurs to Killian: What if the Queen has a way to find him? Does she have the power to locate him across realms? She certainly has more magic beans at her disposal. Would she come this far to reclaim the opal and exact her revenge? Has he put Emma and Henry in danger by harboring himself in their home? The last thought gnaws at him the most. It’s been a very long time since he had to worry about anyone other than himself. He’s always looked after his crew, to be sure, but those are men who have chosen to life live at the mercy of the sea and on the edge of a sword. Emma and Henry, on the other hand, are just decent folk who haven’t signed up for this kind of danger – not knowingly, anyway. 

Killian opens his eyes and stares blindly up into the darkness. He should try to destroy the stone. If the Evil Queen has a way to see him across realms, then perhaps finding out her prize no longer exists will dissuade her from trying to follow. He resolves to speak to Emma about all this in the morning, though the idea of disclosing the potential danger to her makes his stomach clench. If he can convince her to believe him, she might abandon him right then. But the possibility that she or Henry might come to harm on his account is worse, and Killian’s chest tightens as he decides something else: If they cannot find a way to destroy the Sea Star soon, he’ll leave them of his own accord to try to keep them safe. He shifts gingerly in the bed and closes his eyes, feeling aggrieved at the prospect. He should rest while he can, he tells himself. He might not get to sleep under this roof again tomorrow.

Even with the comfort of the bed and the physical exhaustion he feels, Killian sleeps fitfully, and when he wakes again, the glowing device Emma told him was a clock (despite its lack of a face or hands) reads 1:18 A.M. He stares blearily at the luminescent green numbers until the digits change to 1:19, when the creak of floorboards above his head catches his attention. He holds his breath and listens more intently. Again come the sounds of someone moving about upstairs. He frowns. Emma? Henry? Why would either of them be awake at this hour? Is it possible the Queen has already come for him?

He swings his legs out of bed, ignoring the continued protests of his battered body, and switches on the bedside light. He moves quickly to collect his brace, grimly clicking his hook into place, and reaches for his sword before silently climbing the stairs and laying his ear to the door.

Soft music plays in the background, and he hears running water fill a metal container followed by what he recognizes as the sound of Emma clearing her throat. His shoulders fall with a relieved sigh, and curiosity replaces his apprehension. He stares at the knob for a minute, his hand faltering twice before he finally risks knocking on the door, setting his hook and sword to the side on the staircase. 

As before, the shuffle of feet approach and he hears the bolt being thrown back before Emma answers, appearing perplexed. "Killian?”

He scratches behind his ear and gives her a weak smile. “Apologies, love. I heard movement up here and wanted to be sure everything was alright. I didn’t expect you to still be awake at this hour.”

She looks moved by his concern. “Oh. Yeah. Everything’s fine. I, um, I just came back downstairs for something.” She frowns. “Why are _you_ awake?”

He offers her a sheepish shrug. “It’s been an eventful few days. Too much on my mind, I suppose.” He considers divulging his concerns about the Evil Queen right now, but he hasn’t the energy or the heart. _Morning_ , he tells himself. _It can keep until morning._

Her eyes become colored with sympathy and unexplained melancholy, and she chews on her lip and takes a step back. “I, um, I’m making hot cocoa,” she says, pulling the door open wider for him. “Do you want some? I mean, it’s not rum, but it also won’t give you a hangover.”

He grins genuinely this time and accepts her offer with a bow of his head as he climbs the step into the kitchen. He can hear her music better now, emanating from that device of hers on the dining room table. It’s a haunting melody being sung by a woman with a soaring, silky voice.**

_Spend all your time waiting_  
_For that second chance_  
_For a break that would make it okay_  
_There’s always some reason_  
_To feel not good enough_  
_And it’s hard at the end of the day_

Emma motions toward the kitchen stools, and he notes, as he sits, that the device with iron grates is a stove, an intense-looking blue flame flickering as it sears the bottom of a silver kettle. She hauls a large glass jar of chalky brown powder labeled “Hot Cocoa Mix” in a child’s handwriting out of an upper cabinet and spoons equal portions into two ceramic mugs, and when the kettle whistles a few moments later, she pulls it off the stove and dismisses the flame with the turn of a knob. Killian remains quiet, content to simply watch her move about, the two of them wordlessly agreeing to a silence that is, oddly, not uncomfortable. 

_So tired of the straight line_  
_And everywhere you turn_  
_There’s vultures and thieves at your back_  
_The storm keeps on twisting_  
_Keep on building the lies_  
_That you make up for all that you lack_

She pours steaming water into the cups, replacing the kettle on the stove and stirring the drinks with a spoon before going to the refrigerator for a red, cylindrical container with a funny, white pointed top. There’s a hollow rattling noise when she gives it an aggressive shake, and Killian’s expression is one part horrified, one part fascinated as Emma inverts it over the cups and, with an odd hissing sound, creamy white foam pours forth. A glance at his face causes her to burst into quiet laughter, her smile illuminating the room. “It’s okay,” she assures him, “It’s just whipped cream.” After sprinkling both drinks with a dash of reddish-brown spice from a tin box, she slides one gently across the counter to him. “Trust me, it’s delicious.”

Killian lifts the cup by the handle and peers at the concoction with a raised eyebrow before giving her the side-eye. “My life is in your hands, Swan,” he deadpans, lifting the cup to his lips and sipping cautiously. Warm liquid chocolate meets his tongue, and he’s pleasantly surprised by the smooth sweetness that is played up to full effect by the cool cream and the sharp bite of the spice. “Bloody hell, that’s excellent.”

She smiles knowingly. “Hot cocoa with cinnamon,” she comments. “Always good for what ails you.” 

 

* * *

 

It feels deceptively normal to be standing in her kitchen in the wee hours sharing hot cocoa with the man who claims to be Captain Hook. Normal and... kind of nice. And as much as that makes her question her own sanity, there's something so comforting about it in the face of the emotional roller coaster that was this evening that she's willing to go with it. Just for a little while. Emma leans up against the counter and takes a long, slow sip of her cocoa, her lashes fluttering closed for a brief moment as she swallows and feels the warmth of it blossom in her chest. She licks a dab of cream off her upper lip, eyeing the pack still strapped to Killian’s side. “Do you want a fresh ice pack?” she asks, gesturing toward it and setting her cup down. She moves toward the refrigerator. 

Killian hums with amusement. “Fancy another chance to hug me, Swan?” He smirks and reaches toward his right side to tug on the Velcro. 

Emma pauses, trying to look affronted. “I wasn’t trying to hug you,” she huffs, “I was helping you put it on.” She pulls a new ice pack from the freezer drawer and lobs it at his head, and he catches it with ease, laughing at her brazenness.

“If you say so, love.” Killian lays the Neoprene belt across the marble counter and switches out the ice packs before standing. His eyes twinkle, never leaving her face as he maneuvers the belt around his middle and secures it with an annoying lack of difficulty before sitting back down.

Her cheeks burn at how badly she underestimated him. Emma crosses her arms over her chest, flustered. “Does this shameless flirting work on all the girls?” she asks, waving an irritated hand in his general direction.

He grins cheekily and leans forward. “What makes you think I’d act this way around anyone but you?”

She blinks at the implication and turns away to retrieve her mug from the counter. “I thought that was a pirate thing,” she says, “You know, a girl in every port or whatever.”

He sits back and shrugs. “I can’t help the attention, love. I’m a successful pirate captain, after all, not to mention devilishly handsome.” She rolls her eyes again, and Killian gives a quiet chuckle. He tilts his head, his blue eyes studying her so intently she almost feels naked, and drums his fingers on the counter thoughtfully. “That said, it’s been a very long time since I’ve met a woman as interesting as you,” he says, reaching for his mug and lifting the cocoa to his lips.

Emma blushes, but she angles her head and eyes him cautiously, debating whether he’s being truthful or just upping his game. A guarded smile pulls at her lips, and she turns to put the cocoa mix away. “Thanks. I think.”

Killian sets his cup back down and shifts it back and forth on the countertop between his fingers, looking a little dissatisfied with her response. “Why are you awake, Swan?” he asks quietly. “A woman doesn’t rise from bed in the middle of the night to make a hot drink and listen to a sad song for no reason.” 

She stares at him for a long moment before folding her lips and giving him an enigmatic little smile. She has no intention of telling him about how she spent the last few hours tossing and turning while her mind refused to quiet. She's not going to tell him about her messed up past, about the foster homes and the petty crimes and the deeply ingrained sense of being adrift. She’s not going to tell him about getting set up to take the fall by the first man she ever loved and going to prison only to find out he’d left her with a broken heart _and_ a child. She’s not going to tell him about fighting tooth and nail for ten years to build a life for herself and Henry only to find out tonight that she’s still so broken she can’t even accept a marriage proposal from the world’s nicest guy. And she’s certainly not going to tell him about how confused and conflicted she’s letting him, a head case she didn’t even know five hours ago, make her feel. 

Emma resumes straightening up. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He continues to stare at her, undeterred. “Perhaps I would,” he answers softly. 

Emma colors again, daring to shoot him a questioning look before she turns away and busies herself with rinsing her mug out and setting it in the sink. She clears her throat. “That’s a tale for another day.”

Killian sighs, acknowledging his own words with a small nod. He lifts his drink. “To another day, then,” he toasts, draining his cup and rising to his feet. 

She doesn’t move as he approaches, somehow rooted to the spot as he draws close and reaches past her to set his mug in the sink next to hers. They stand facing one another, and he gives her with a doleful little smile before lowering his head so his breath dusts her eyelids and her heart rises to her throat. “Sweet dreams, Swan.”

 

* * *

 

The clock reads 2:00 A.M. when Killian turns out the light and returns to bed. He closes his eyes, unable to rid himself of the images of Emma running through his mind. Gods, but she’s a beautiful creature – a bloody brilliant woman with a stubborn streak, fierce and posturing one moment, generous and caring and funny the next, and, it seems, a fellow victim of loss and loneliness.

He chews on his lip, recalling the way it felt to have her breath on his skin and her arms wrapped around him, even for half a second. He swallows. Emma is right that he’s frequently sought the company of beautiful women in the decades upon decades since losing Milah, whether to distract himself from his overwhelming sorrow, to scratch an itch, or, when he was being particularly masochistic, to try to remember what being with his love felt like. He’s well versed in lust, certainly. But this… whatever this is… with Emma – this feels different. He finds himself wanting to understand her, to coax out her secrets, to break down her walls, to find ways to make her smile. She’s the kind of woman who could convince him to stay in port longer with just a look, the kind of woman he’d invite to come away with him, maybe even the kind of woman he’d go on an adventure for. Deep wrinkles appear in his forehead as he realizes, Heaven help him, that she’s the kind of woman he’s going to _miss_ , and the thought plagues him until he finally succumbs to exhaustion and passes into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When he knocks on the door in the morning, Henry is the one to answer, the boy’s smile just as broad as it had been the night before. “Hi, Killian!” He glances down. “Nice pajamas.”

Killian grins back. “Good morning, Henry.” He steps into the kitchen. Daylight allows him to see out the kitchen window properly now, and he spies a small, square porch bordered by a metal railing on the other side of the back door. A long, gray flagstone courtyard stretches out below beneath the boughs of a tall shade tree. 

He glances around the kitchen and the dining room. “Is your mum awake?” he asks.

Henry scrambles back into one of the stools at the kitchen counter. “She went upstairs to get dressed,” he reports. “She’ll be back down in a minute.” He takes a bite out of a rectangular biscuit covered in dull chocolate glaze. “What are you going to do today?” he asks, his mouth full.

Killian sits next to him. “That’s what I need to discuss with her,” he replies. He eyes the remainder of the biscuit on the boy’s plate warily. “What _is_ that?”

Henry makes a happy little sound and holds it up, allowing Killian a glimpse of the layer of dark brown goo nestled inside. “Chocolate Pop-Tart. Want one?”

Killian grimaces. “Your mother lets you eat sweets like this for breakfast?” he asks skeptically. When Henry hums the affirmative, Killian shakes his head. “Well, I suppose no one is perfect,” he mutters. He gestures toward the bowl of fruit on the counter. “May I?”

Henry affably slides it over and watches with interest as Killian breaks a banana off the bunch and proceeds to peel it from the bottom using his one hand. “Wow, you’re really good at that,” he says with awe.

Killian grins and swallows the first bite. “Let's just say I've spent my fair share of time on tropical islands.” He surveys a sheet of paper printed with numerical figures that sits next to Henry’s plate and gestures with his brace. “Is this your homework?”

The lad nods, his expression turning less enthusiastic. “Yeah. We’re doing fractions. It’s the _worst_ ,” he says melodramatically. “I still can’t get number nine, but Mom’s going to help me when she comes back down.”

Killian takes another bite and cranes his head to get a better look. “Allow me.”

Henry lifts his eyebrows. “You know how to do fractions?” he asks incredulously, sliding the paper over.

Killian chuckles. “Lad, do you have any idea how much arithmetic it takes to be a pirate captain?” When Henry shakes his head, he carefully lays his half-eaten banana down on the peel, flips the paper over to the blank side, and reaches for Henry’s pencil. He jots numbers as he talks. “Say we capture a merchant ship carrying 200 pieces of gold,” he says, “100 pieces go into the ship’s coffers to pay for food and supplies and whatnot. The rest is divided amongst the crew,” he explains. “I have sixteen men aboard the Jolly right now, not including meself, so how many portions is that?”

“Seventeen.”

He smiles and waves a finger. “Ah, but the captain gets a double share, lad.”

Henry narrows one eye. “So… eighteen?”

“Correct.” He beams at the boy and writes in the denominator, “18,” below “100,” holding the pencil out to Henry. “Now tell me how many pieces I give to each of my men.” He resumes eating his banana and waits patiently as Henry works the problem, his eyes glinting with amusement at the way Henry’s forehead furrows in concentration while he scratches out his calculations slowly.

“So… everyone gets… five pieces,” Henry concludes at last. “With ten left over.”

“Excellent work, lad.” Killian favors him with a broad smile and an approving nod. “And a take like that will have the crew in a good mood for a week.”

Henry taps his pencil on the paper. “What happens to the other ten pieces?” he asks.

Killian gets up and tosses the banana peel in the bin beneath the sink. “Well, Mr. Smee gets a bit extra for being first mate,” he explains, brushing his hand off on his shirt, “And the rest goes to further shore up the ship’s coffers. We might also buy an extra cask of ale to celebrate our good fortune.” He winks, resuming his seat. “Now,” he says, flipping Henry’s homework sheet back over. “Let’s see about problem number nine, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Emma sighs as she pulls her gray sweater over her head and straightens it. The sun shines through her east-facing bedroom window, and a glimpse outside suggests it’s a normal October morning on their little street, the occasional car or neighbor with a dog or jogger passing by. Her problem is that she can hear the muffled voices of her son and their wayward guest filtering up from the kitchen, and she knows that this is likely to be anything but a normal day. She frowns as she pulls her hair free of her collar and studies her appearance in the mirror critically, dabbing away a stray smudge of eye makeup with a dissatisfied little noise in the back of her throat and turning her face this way and that to give herself a last once-over. She takes a deep breath and reaches for her caramel leather jacket before heading downstairs, praying to all the powers that be that things will start making sense again in the very near future.

The sight that greets her in the kitchen stops her dead in her tracks, her jaw slack as her eyes fall upon Killian, still in his pajamas, huddled with Henry over a math worksheet at the center island. Emma stares dumbly, unsure which is more improbable – that Killian, the overblown flirt who claims to be a pirate, is walking her son through his homework like it’s the most natural thing in the world, or that Henry is actually engaged, hunched forward on his elbows and thinking his way through a fractions question out loud without any reluctance in his voice. 

It’s official. Her whole world has turned on its ear.

Killian looks up and sees her standing there, his unfairly handsome face splitting into a brilliant smile. “Well good morning, love.”

Emma shakes herself out of her stunned stupor. “Hey,” she manages weakly. She eyes her ready pot of coffee and makes straight for it, desperately hoping some caffeine might help her understand the illogical jumble that has become her life. “What’s going on?”

“We’re doing fractions,” Henry reports cheerfully. “Did you know that pirates have to be good at math, Mom?”

Emma raises an eyebrow as she pulls a mug down from the cabinet. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Henry says authoritatively. “For dividing up treasure and budgeting and navigation and repairing the ship and all sorts of stuff.”

Emma clears her throat as she pours a generous cup. “I can honestly say I’ve never thought about it.” She reaches for the sugar bowl and throws Killian a glance over her shoulder, her stomach fluttering at the proud look he’s giving Henry. “Do, uh, do pirates also drink coffee?”

Killian looks up at her, blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and gives her a wholesome grin that only unsettles her more. “Indeed we do, Swan.”

She nods and reaches for another cup. “Sugar? There’s also cream in the fridge.”

“Sugar would be brilliant, lass. Thank you. We haven’t had any on my ship in months.”

 _Right. Of course._ Emma tries not to let the extreme details of his delusions bother her as she preps his mug and slides it over. She turns away to look out the back window, cradling her own coffee in her hands while Henry and Killian continue to chat numbers. 

No sooner has the warmth and comfort of the drink started to take the edge off her nerves when the doorbell rings, and she nearly jumps. Emma whirls around, sharing a curious look with Henry and setting her mug down. “I got it.” She glances at the clock. “Pack up, kiddo, or you’re gonna be late for the bus.”

A look through the peephole shows Walsh standing on the front step with a big bouquet of brightly colored gerbera daisies in his hand. Emma gasps and winces. She hasn’t even begun to think about how to explain the situation with Killian to Walsh. Panic rises in her chest, and she curses his thoughtfulness as she forces herself to open the door. “Hi!” she says, trying her best at a bright smile. “What are you doing here?”

Her boyfriend grins and offers her the bouquet with a flourish. “Being lovable.”

She chuckles nervously and accepts the flowers. “They’re very pretty. Thanks.” She plants a hasty kiss on his cheek. “Um, shouldn’t you be getting ready to open the store right now?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got that new assistant manager, remember? She can handle it.” He steps forward, and Emma automatically backs up to allow him in, more expletives running through her head. “I thought I’d say hi to Henry before he goes to school and see if you had time for a cup of coffee before you have to run off after whatever shady character you’re chasing today.”

She grins anxiously. “That’s, um, that’s really sweet.”

Henry comes bounding around the corner, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Gotta go, Mom.” He looks up. “Oh. Hi Walsh.”

“Hey pal,” Walsh says, his smile fading as he looks up and notices the man who’s just emerged from the kitchen right behind Henry. Killian walks up, barefoot and in pajamas, with coffee mug in hand and a polite little smile curving his lips as he surveys them. Walsh’s eyebrows pinch together. “Um, hi.”

Emma freezes, her brain registering the suspicious look on both men’s faces as they size each other up. _Ohhhh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

“Oh, Walsh, this is Killian. Killian, Walsh,” Henry volunteers happily as he grabs his coat off the hook by the door and throws it on.

Emma snatches her son’s scarf and tosses it over his head. “Get to the bus, kid. You’re late,” she says, trying to bustle him toward the door before he can say anything else. “I’ll see you after school.”

“’Kay.” Henry opens the door and turns back to wave. “Bye, Killian! Thanks for helping me with my homework!”

Killian’s flat smile momentarily warms as he nods and gestures with his mug. “Have a good day, lad.”

And like that, Henry disappears out the door, leaving Emma with her boyfriend, a fairytale pirate, and a very awkward silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** _Angel (Sarah McLachlan)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Spend all your time waiting_  
>  _For that second chance_  
>  _For a break that would make it okay_  
>  _There's always some reason_  
>  _To feel not good enough_  
>  _And it's hard at the end of the day_  
>  _I need some distraction_  
>  _Oh, beautiful release_  
>  _Memories seep from my veins_  
>  _Let me be empty_  
>  _And weightless and maybe_  
>  _I'll find some peace tonight_
> 
>  
> 
> _In the arms of the angel_  
>  _Fly away from here_  
>  _From this dark cold hotel room_  
>  _And the endlessness that you fear_  
>  _You are pulled from the wreckage_  
>  _Of your silent reverie_  
>  _You're in the arms of the angel_  
>  _May you find some comfort here_
> 
>  
> 
> _So tired of the straight line_  
>  _And everywhere you turn_  
>  _There's vultures and thieves at your back_  
>  _The storm keeps on twisting_  
>  _Keep on building the lies_  
>  _That you make up for all that you lack_  
>  _It don't make no difference_  
>  _Escaping one last time_  
>  _It's easier to believe in this sweet madness, oh_  
>  _This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees_
> 
>  
> 
> _In the arms of the angel_  
>  _Fly away from here_  
>  _From this dark cold hotel room_  
>  _And the endlessness that you fear_  
>  _You are pulled from the wreckage_  
>  _Of your silent reverie_  
>  _You're in the arms of the angel_  
>  _May you find some comfort here_  
>  _You're in the arms of the angel_  
>  _May you find some comfort here_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys! Some of you have been leaving me the nicest comments about this fic, and I just want to say thank you again for believing in it and in me. I'm sorry it's taking me longer than I usually like to get these chapters out to you, but my word count per chapter has also jumped, so I hope that makes up for it a little. I will do my best to get you guys a couple more chapters by Christmas, but 'tis the season, and there are gift fics that I need to turn my attention to (which is still good news if you enjoy my writing!). A thousand thanks again for your love and support! Have a lovely day!

Five seconds feels like thirty minutes to Emma as Walsh and Killian eye each other, and the room is silent, save for the distant sound of Henry calling out to one of his friends on his way up the block to the bus stop. Walsh clears his throat first, throwing Emma a questioning look before he moves forward with his hand out. “Uh, Killian, is it?” he asks, forehead furrowed in confusion. "Oscar Walsh.”

Killian quickly cradles his mug against his side with his left arm in order to free up his hand to shake. “Killian Jones,” he responds brusquely, and Emma can see Walsh wince the tiniest bit as Killian’s crushing grip belies the polite expression on his face.

Walsh steps back, plastering on the guarded, slightly strained smile Emma knows he reserves for difficult customers, and his eyes flit between her and this strange, handsome new man who appears to have spent the night at her place. “Uh, Emma?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” she says. She catches Killian’s eye, and they share a brief look. He silently acquiesces to let her do the talking, and the whisper of disappointment on his face somehow fills her with guilt as she turns back to her boyfriend. “Killian is… a friend,” she explains haltingly, “He’s staying in the downstairs apartment for a little while.” Walsh’s shoulders relax a fraction, and she inhales audibly and turns back to Killian. “Um, could you excuse us a minute?”

His dark eyebrows jump, and he gives them the briefest of perfunctory smiles. “Aye. I suppose I should go dress.” He pauses as he ducks away, throwing her a glance over his shoulder, his face now somber. “I’ll await you downstairs, Swan.” When she gives him a weak smile and nods, his expression softens, and he moves off.

Walsh’s eyes are like lasers fixed on his back until Killian vanishes around the corner. Emma sighs inwardly, trying to clear her head while they wait for the basement door to close. Walsh spins to face her and shrugs off his coat, his movements slightly jerky with agitation. “You never mentioned someone was coming to stay.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t really planned,” she tells him flatly. She walks back to the kitchen, absently pulling a vase out of a cabinet for the daisies. “Killian’s… a new case,” she explains, setting the vase in the sink and running the water. “Henry brought him to me yesterday. You remember Alan Tudyk's character in _Dodgeball_? The one who thinks he’s a pirate?”

Walsh settles onto one of the barstools, frowning with interest. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. That’s Killian.” Emma feeds the stems into the vase and turns to set the bouquet on the center island next to the fruit bowl.

Her boyfriend’s consternation fades a little, and he snorts with amusement. “Really? He thinks he’s a pirate?”

Emma smiles sadly and goes to pour Walsh a cup of coffee. “He says he’s Captain Hook. Like, from _Peter Pan_. He’s got this really weird, complicated backstory and a costume and everything.”

Walsh cocks his head critically. “Okay...” He sits back, crossing his arms. “So naturally, you decided he should come home with you.”

She rolls her eyes and gives him a look. “Henry’s convinced he’s telling the truth and was basically begging. Plus, Killian got hit by a car last night and was a little banged up,” she says, her speech growing more pressured, “And he needed a place to stay, and I thought I might be able to figure out who he is and get him home, you know?” Emma slides the coffee over and slumps into the other seat, fatigued. Her mind goes back to her conversation with Killian the previous evening, and she stares blankly at the corner of the kitchen where they’d stood (a little too close) when she’d changed his bandages. “He lost someone important to him around the same time he lost his hand,” she says sadly, thinking out loud. “I don’t know. Maybe he had a psychotic break.”

Walsh picks up his mug. “Saint Emma Swan,” he proclaims, lifting the cup to his lips with a little smirk. “If I’d known all I had to do to get to stay overnight was pretend to be crazy, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

She bristles and throws him an exasperated glance out of the corner of her eye. “Walsh…”

He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. We’re keeping boundaries for Henry’s sake,” he recites, waving her off. “I’m joking.” He takes another sip and frowns. “So what if you can’t figure out who he is?”

Emma arches an eyebrow. “You know me. I always get my man.”

Walsh looks dissatisfied, his eyes still on his coffee. “I guess.” He gives her a chiding glance. “But this isn’t a matter of finding a missing person, Emma.”

A wrinkle appears between her eyes. “No, it’s not,” she says solemnly, clutching her mug between her hands and raising it to her mouth. “It’s a matter of helping a man who’s lost and needs to be found.” She doesn’t look up as Walsh leans over and pops a rough kiss on the top of her head. 

“If you say so,” he says resignedly. “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

“Yes…” she sighs in a mock-suffering tone. “I picked up my costume last weekend.”

“Oh, come on,” he goads, looking more cheerful, “Don’t be such a fun-hater. A costume ball on Halloween? It’s going to be great. You’ll love it.”

“Yeah,” she chuffs wryly. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

Killian hears the murmur of voices and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Emma and Walsh move about above his head. He sighs as he strips off the pajamas and reaches for his regular clothes almost reluctantly. The time spent last night and this morning with Emma and Henry – quiet hours in domestic peace – was an experience both completely foreign and entirely wonderful, and for a short while it was a taste of… a home. But it may as well have been a fantasy. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head emphatically to no one in particular. This isn’t his life. When Milah died, he’d swallowed the bitter truth that anything resembling a happy ending for him was impossible. Now, being here, he feels as though he’s been given a glimpse of what impossible might look like, and to be reminded, as he relinquishes the comfort of the pajamas and dons his shirt and trousers and strains to hear the indecipherable conversation between Emma and her beau, that none of this is meant for him feels like a punch to the gut. 

He pulls the Sea Star out of its purse and weighs it in his hand. At least it’s a reminder that he has a mission – he needs to destroy the jewel and find a way to get back to the Enchanted Forest and the Jolly Roger. Everything else – _everyone_ else – is just a distraction.

He’s doing up the clasps on his waistcoat when the footsteps move toward the entryway, and after a few moments there’s the muffled swish and click of the door. Killian hastens to the front windows to cautiously peek through the curtains just as Walsh’s feet land on the sidewalk. The tall man stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and turns his head in Killian’s direction, fixing the apartment with an uneasy frown before heading up the block, his brown hair being tossed in the autumn breeze. 

Killian swallows. The fellow seemed pleasant enough, but Killian finds a seed of resentment blooming nonetheless based on nothing but the fact that the man appears to have Emma’s affections. He huffs, berating himself. He’s Captain Hook, one of the most feared (and desired) pirates ever to command a ship; jealousy, especially over a woman, does not become him. Emma is attractive, to be sure, but she is not someone he should be tying himself up in knots over.

The stair door opens, and he’s immediately at attention, turning his head like an eager pup. 

If only he could convince his emotions of the facts.

“Killian?”

“Here, love.” He comes to the foot of the steps, raising his eyes to find her standing in the doorway searching for him. His heart betrays him again, leaping at the small, apologetic smile on her face.

“Sorry about that,” she says as he climbs toward her.

Killian forces what he hopes resembles an unconcerned shrug. “Quite alright, Swan.” He clears his throat, willing himself to focus. “If you have a moment now, however, there is an issue of some importance I should like to consult you about.”

Emma looks at him quizzically as he passes through the door. “You mean beyond the whole ‘finding your way home’ thing?”

He digs the Sea Star out, holding up to her. “I need to find a way to destroy this.”

“What?” she chuckles incredulously. “Why?”

Killian frowns solemnly. “I fear stealing it from the Evil Queen and fleeing here will not be enough,” he explains, raising his eyes to meet Emma’s. “She has more magic beans. If she figures out where I’ve gone, it’s a simple matter to follow. Destroying the Sea Star is the only way to ensure she’ll never be able to cast her curse, and it may deter her from pursuing me.” He swallows, his face full of guilt. “Until then, I fear my presence puts you and Henry at risk.”

He braces himself for a dramatic reaction. Curiously, none comes. Emma simply considers him for a long minute, her green eyes narrowed in deep thought, and he is unsure whether to interpret her notable lack of alarm as continued disbelief in his story or sheer (perhaps foolish) bravery in the face of a threat like the Queen. Finally, without a word, she goes to the dining table and flips open the hinged device she had been using to play music earlier. 

The view he gets when she bends over to look down at it in those skin-tight, dark blue trousers of hers is entirely too distracting, and he groans inwardly, both grateful and disappointed when, after a moment, she decides to assume the nearby chair instead. Killian approaches, standing behind her and forcing his attention to her machine, which consists of a glowing glass window on the top half and neat rows of buttons marked with letters and numbers on the bottom. There’s a series of clicks as Emma’s fingers begin to fly nimbly over the buttons. He squints. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for an expert on gems,” she tells him, her eyes fixed on the display. “I don’t know anything about opals, do you? Seems like a good place to start if you want to know how to go about destroying one.”

He blinks, both at how seriously she suddenly appears to be taking him and at the usefulness of her idea. “Indeed,” he replies in awe.

She smirks as a map appears on her device with a place marker labeled “The Gemological Appraisal Laboratory of America.” “That’ll work.” She points to a large swath of green north of the marker. “I need to visit Central Park to check out a lead on that man I told you about last night.” She gives him a leery glance out of the corner of her eye. “Are you going to get in my way if I let you come along?”

He affects his most innocent grin. “On my honor, I wouldn’t dream of it, Swan.”

Emma chuffs, though he catches the dimple that appears in her cheek. “Well, we can visit the gemologist after that. I’ll request an appointment for this afternoon,” she says. 

He watches, uncomprehending, as she alternately presses buttons and glides her finger around a small rectangular field in order to guide a little arrow magically across the window at her whim, the images in the window shifting and changing as she works. “What is this?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

He gestures toward the device.

She registers the suspicion and bewilderment on his face and chuckles. “It’s a computer. It lets me access the internet…” She pauses, a cute little wrinkle appearing between her eyes as she searches for a way to elaborate. “It… It lets people all over the world communicate with one another and post information.”

Killian’s forehead creases. “Post it where?”

“Um…It’s…” The pitch of her voice rises and she gestures toward the window before she gives up, a feeble smile gracing her mouth. “It’s really complicated.”

He smiles reassuringly, completely taken by her helpless expression. “Fair enough, love.”

Emma hums and folds the computer closed with a sigh. “Anyway.” She gets up and walks to the living room, and Killian watches, intrigued again, when she reaches toward a large picture frame and swings it away from the wall on a concealed set of hinges running along one side. There's a series of tiny chirps as he stands, and when he clears the corner, he sees her tug open the door of a solid-looking safe buried in the wall behind the frame. 

Killian grins appreciatively at her hidden cache. “A woman after my own heart,” he quips.

Emma rolls her eyes, allowing him an amused glance. She pulls what he recognizes as a compact gun from the safe, checking it over before ramming a short cartridge of bullets into the base. The efficiency with which she handles her weapon is both alarming and captivating. 

“Bloody hell, Swan,” he breathes. “I thought you said your work wasn’t dangerous.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, tucking the gun into the waistband of her trousers at the small of her back, “A girl can’t be too careful.” She shuts the safe and puts the picture frame back into place. “Like I said, no need to take stupid risks, especially when I’m looking for a guy known for trafficking guns.” She takes a deep breath and straightens her jacket. “Ready to go?”

They descend back into the apartment to retrieve his coat and his hook and to argue about whether he should take his sword with them.

“You’re going to take your weapon and not allow me mine?” he demands indignantly, clicking his hook into place.

“Mine’s legal in this town,” she informs him. “Yours isn’t. Besides, I’m pretty sure we won’t be running into anyone for you to swordfight with.”

He glowers at her but sets his scabbard aside, the sting of his displeasure lessened by the self-satisfied grin that hints on her lips when she leads him out the door.

 

* * *

 

The Evil Queen’s footfalls are silent as she shuttles down the corridor from her bedchamber to her solar, her ornate, high-collared dressing gown swishing heavily around her. Her foul mood is palpable, and the three guards that always accompany her are particularly vigilant about keeping their distance today.

“A bad morning, my Queen?”

She walks directly up to the source of the voice, a large, circular mirror ornamented with an array of silver tentacles that curl out in every direction like a sunburst. The disembodied head of a dour-looking man appears to float inside, his face tinged blue by the shadowy world inside the mirror, and he blinks at her expectantly, his expression placid.

“Save your chit chat for another day,” she snaps. “Show him to me.”

“The pirate, your Majesty?” he asks serenely.

“Yes, the pirate!” she barks, taking a step toward the mirror menacingly. “Show me Captain Hook!”

The face disappears, and the mirror is suddenly filled with the image of the dark-haired man in question. He’s standing in an odd-looking room filled with white cabinets and holding the Sea Star in his hand while speaking with a blonde woman, earnestness painted on his face.

_“I fear stealing it from the Evil Queen and fleeing here will not be enough,” he tells her. “She has more magic beans. If she figures out where I’ve gone, it’s a simple matter to follow. Destroying the Sea Star is the only way to ensure she’ll never be able to cast her curse, and it may deter her from pursuing me.”_

The Queen’s eyes widen, her expression turning venomous at the possibility that he would destroy the stone. She curses. “Where is he?” she demands, squinting at the surroundings in the image. “What land has he gone to?”

“It’s the Land Without Magic, your Majesty,” the Mirror replies, his face reappearing. 

The Queen blinks at him, further displeasure causing her to flush. Hands planted on her hips, she spins around and begins to stalk this way and that in thought.

“You could do as he says and follow,” the Mirror points out.

She whirls on him. “It’s the Land _Without Magic_ , fool,” she spits. “I can’t use my powers there. I’d never get past the tip of his sword.”

The Mirror hums. “Another plan then, perhaps?”

The Queen huffs and bows her head for a moment. “I need someone he trusts.” She turns to the Mirror. “Show me his first mate.”

Again, the ghostly face disappears, this time replaced by the visage of a shorter, somewhat portly man with a reddish brown beard and a bright red knit hat. The Evil Queen watches him whop the head of a fellow crew member lying asleep at a tavern table in order to rouse him.

“There,” she says with a sneer as the first mate moves on to do the same with a few other pirates. “Where are they?”

“Longbourn, Majesty,” the Mirror replies.

Her head whips around to her guards. “Longbourn. Prepare the carriage!” she orders. One of the soldiers promptly bows and scurries away, and she turns back to the Mirror, narrowing her eyes as she studies the man in the red hat once more and formulates her plan, a ruthless little smile forming on her lips.

 

* * *

 

The sun shines down upon Killian and Emma as they wander the paths of Central Park that lead toward the chess house. Emma’s hands are stuffed in her coat pockets, a light wind tossing her hair over her shoulder. She produces a gray beanie and tugs it on, catching the way Killian eyes it with a quirky grin while she runs a finger under the edge to smooth back a flyaway strand. “What?”

“Nothing, love. You just look rather fetching,” he says airily.

She colors a little but doesn’t reply, too busy silently scolding herself for feeling a little thrill between her shoulder blades at his smile and for noticing how the medium scruff of his beard appears more ginger than brown in this light.

The squat, hexagonal, brick chess house sits on a pavilion upon a small hill, ringed by stone games tables and benches and graceful pergolas whose vines have gone dormant for the season. The balding, elderly man manning the desk inside greets them pleasantly, his dark brown eyes comically magnified by his thick glasses lenses. His name tag reads “Geri.” “Hi, folks. You need some game pieces?”

Emma flashes a warm smile and shakes her head. “No, thanks. My name’s Emma Swan. I’m a private investigator who works with the police.” She briefly grasps his wrinkled hand. “We’re looking for a man named Joe Rathburn who likes to play chess here sometimes and were wondering if you might have seen him.” She pulls out a copy of the man’s photo and hands it over. “He’s about 6'1”, 190 lbs, Jersey accent.”

Geri peers at the photo and nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Sure. I know the fella. He likes to come in the mornings, maybe once or twice a week.”

Emma’s face lights up. “You’ve seen him recently?” she asks eagerly.

Geri nods again. “Sure. He was here last weekend. I imagine we’ll be seeing him today or tomorrow.”

She beams triumphantly at Killian before she realizes what she’s doing, and it’s only when he returns it with a dazzling grin of his own that she colors and looks away. Emma pulls out a business card and snags a pen out of the cup on the counter. “If you see him, would you mind giving me a call or a text?” she asks. She scribbles her cell phone number on the back. “The Mounted Auxiliary Unit will also be keeping an eye out, but you might see him before they do.” She hands the card across the counter. “I’ll try to stay nearby for a bit in case he shows up today.”

The old man accepts the card and studies it. “Sure.” He glances at the photo again warily. “What’d he do?”

“Parole violation,” she explains. “He’s not the nicest guy, so if you see him, just stay calm and quiet until I can arrive with police back-up, okay?” She raises her eyebrows, her expression encouraging.

Geri takes the photo and her card and slides them below the counter. “I’ll do my best, Miss.”

Emma offers him her hand again. “Emma,” she corrects him, shaking.

“Emma,” he repeats with a grandfatherly smile. “Geri.”

“Geri, thanks for your help.” She gives him a little wave as she turns, and she and Killian head back out into the morning air.

“Excellent,” Killian says as they saunter across the pavilion, passing half a dozen ongoing games. “Now what, Swan?”

She hums and looks out over the park. “Now we kill time,” she answers. 

They return to the foot path and begin to wander south, circumventing the ice skating rink at a leisurely pace without a particular destination in mind.

“So this suitor of yours,” Killian says. “He seems pleasant.”

Emma shoots him a suspicious side-eye, but when Killian merely awaits her response, looking relatively innocent, she nods slowly. “He is.”

Killian glances down at the toes of his boots. “He seems serious about you.”

Emma gives a sigh that borders on impatience, not terribly excited or prepared to discuss her relationship with Walsh with anyone, much less with the man next to her. “Yeah,” she confirms curtly.

Her tone causes him to turn his head. “The feeling’s not mutual?”

“No! I mean, yes. I mean…” She gives an irritated frown. “Yes, of course I care about Walsh,” she insists, sounding rankled.

Killian is silent for a beat too long. “I see.”

“What?” she demands.

He shakes his head soberly. “It’s nothing, Swan. I’ve probably overstepped as it is.”

“Yeah,” she says with a dubious chuckle. “Yeah, you have. So you might as well stop being cryptic and say what you want to say.”

He meets her eyes questioningly. When she blinks expectantly at him, he shrugs. “You just don’t strike me as a woman blissfully in love,” he admits.

“Oh, and you would know,” she shoots back. Her sarcastic expression drops the moment she sees the shadow that crosses his face and the echoes of that same haunted look she’s seen before.

“I would.”

 _Way to go, Emma._ Emma opens her mouth to say something but realizes she doesn’t know how to respond, and she awkwardly looks away, fixing her gaze on the horizon. At last she sighs. “It’s…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is. It’s complicated.”

They walk in companionable silence for a while, the wind roaring in their ears at times as gusts whip across the park.

“Walsh is great,” she says at last. “He’s sweet and reliable and he forgives a lot…” She shrugs, her eyes falling to the walkway. “He’s, you know, he’s everything I need.”

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Well that’s one way to describe true love, I suppose.”

Emma chuffs, giving him a skeptical glance. “True love?” She cocks her head. “Pretty sure there’s no such thing.”

“Are you now?” He stops walking, surveying her with his eyebrows raised and his eyes half-lidded.

“Uh, yeah.” Her voice is confident as she turns to face him. “That bliss you’re talking about? That’s just infatuation, puppy love.” Her countenance darkens a little, and regret steals over her features. “And puppy love is for children and… you know,” she waves a hand at him, “fairy tales.” She resumes their pace. 

She can feel him studying her, still with sadness in his eyes, though it’s no longer for himself. “On the contrary, Swan,” he replies, matching her steps once more, “where I come from, it’s widely known that true love is the most powerful magic of all.”

She laughs dryly. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” Killian appears contemplative. “Are you familiar with the story of Snow White?”

Emma raises an eyebrow. _He can't be for real._ “Sure. Girly princess who talks to forest creatures and has a weird living arrangement with seven little men.”

Killian gives a deep chuckle, the sound sending another transient thrill up her spine. “Yes and no.” They arrive at the scenic pond that occupies the southern corner of the park, heading east to the benches that line the water’s edge and afford visitors a picturesque view of the pond and the romantic stone bridge that spans it. He gestures toward a bench. “Sit, Swan. It’s story time.” Taking a seat, he pats the spot next to him and tuts at her look of skepticism. “We’ve nothing better to do at the moment anyway. Humor me.” He smiles when she huffs and complies, settling back on the bench, hands in her pockets and legs crossed. “Good girl.”

Ignoring the annoyed look she shoots him, he proceeds to spin a tale for her about the real Snow White and her Prince, about a princess-turned-bandit-and-warrior and the man whose heart she won with a blow to the head and the theft of a ring. Killian tells her about their legendary romance, a true love for the ages, and the numerous times the pair has faced the Evil Queen (the same Evil Queen he himself crossed), consistently thwarting her schemes with the strength and courage and hope and persistence that stem from that love. His voice grows melodious, almost hypnotic as he talks, and he weaves his story so masterfully that there are points when Emma actually finds herself hanging on his words intently. He rewards any interest she shows with a warm smile that causes butterflies to stir in her stomach, and she has to admit that it’s a wonderful idea at least, this True Love thing that he’s trying to sell her on.

“It’s a great story,” she agrees when he finally finishes, letting her faraway smile fade. “Really.” She clears her throat. “But this is the real world, Killian,” she points out gently, her eyes on the fall colors that have set the surrounding trees ablaze, “and we don’t have magic here.”

He sighs and purses his lips. “Perhaps not obvious magic,” he says with a thoughtful nod, “But if living in Neverland taught me anything, love, it’s that sometimes all you need to do to find the magic in a place is believe in it.”

Emma turns her head to look at him again, hesitantly tracing the lines of his face, taking in his kind expression and those soulful blue eyes, and finds herself wishing that he were right. Maybe, in this World According to Killian Jones, she could actually hope for true love – for a man who inspires her and makes her laugh, a man who believes in her and reminds her every day that he’s never going to leave, a man who isn’t just enough, but _everything_. Her breath catches a little, and she blinks back the early sting of tears, forcing her gaze away from Killian’s face and redirecting it out over the water. _Yeah_ , she thinks wistfully, taking a deep breath. _That would be nice._

 

* * *

 

They remain at the pond for a little while longer, sitting quietly side by side on the park bench, each thinking their own thoughts. A young couple with twin toddlers arrives, leading their little girls to the rocky ledge that overhangs the pond and showing them how to throw bits of bread into the water to attract the ducks. The air fills with the high-pitched shrieks and squeals of childish laughter as the girls embrace the activity, their little, round, rosy faces scrunched up with joy as they clumsily toss fat handfuls of crumbs to their new feathered friends and clap delightedly.

It’s a sight far different from anything that he’s seen in a very, very long time, and Killian finds himself smiling softly. “See, Swan?” he murmurs, leaning a little toward Emma and nodding toward the children. “I think your world does have some magic in it.”

Emma raises her eyebrows at his sentiment and gives him a sideways glance, her dimples peeking. “You know, you’re kind of a softie for a guy who’s supposed to be a hardened pirate,” she comments after a moment.

Killian blushes and grins ruefully. “Oh, I can be many things, love,” he says teasingly. His eyes swivel to meet hers, and there’s something about the approving way she looks at him and the color that blooms in her cheeks that fills his chest with hope. His rakish grin transforms into something quieter, and he drops his gaze to the bench shyly. “It’s nice to be reminded of that once in a while,” he confesses.

The device she refers to as a phone suddenly chimes, and Emma hastily fishes it out of her pocket. What she sees causes her to promptly sit forward, stuffing the phone back into her jacket. “It’s Geri,” she reports, sucking in a deep breath before getting to her feet. “Come on. Showtime.”

They make their way back toward the chess house while Emma proceeds to call two other people with her phone – a man named Tom, whom Killian gathers helps patrol the park, and the police. She has to identify herself and give a lengthier explanation to the latter, but she ultimately seems satisfied when she ends her call. “That’s it,” she tells him. “Cavalry’s on their way.” The corner of her mouth tugs upward in grim determination. “Let’s go get our guy.”

When they near the long staircase leading up to the chess house from the foot path, Emma hums. “Tom’s here,” she murmurs to him, tipping her chin toward a sturdy-looking chestnut mare with a white blaze and matching white half-stockings that stands tied to the enormous lamppost at the base of the stairs. The horse bears a saddle atop an green blanket embroidered with the gold shield of the patrol unit, and her dark tail swishes lazily as she waits on her rider.

Emma’s quarry is to their right when they set foot back on the pavilion, seated at a table across from a lanky man with a sallow complexion and salt-and-pepper hair. Both men are dressed in short leather jackets and the blue trousers that seem to be ubiquitous in this world, and they’re engrossed in the fastest game of chess Killian has ever seen, their hands alternately darting over the board and slapping the buttons atop a funny double-faced clock that sits on one side of the table.

If Emma sees them, she gives no indication, her features neutral as she leads Killian back into the chess house, her only display of emotion an appreciative glance when he pulls the door open for her. Once inside, the door shuts behind them, and she makes straight for a man who stands at the counter speaking with Geri. “Tom.”

The middle-aged blonde gentleman with a round, white helm tucked under one arm is dressed in a dark green jacket and matching trousers tucked into tall black riding boots, and he turns at the sound of her voice, his crow’s feet creasing deeper as he smiles. “Emma Swan,” he says, turning and extending his other arm to her. He chuckles as she grabs his hand and pulls her into a quick half-hug. “How you been, darlin’?”

She hums cheerfully. “Busy, same as usual.”

“I see that.” He nods toward the windows. “You see your man out there?”

She nods, her back still to the door. “Yeah, at my four o’clock. His buddy’s a known associate of his.”

“You think he’ll come quietly?”

She follows his gaze over her shoulder. “I hope so, but better safe than sorry,” she replies. “The park police precinct is sending us a couple of officers. I just hope they don’t spook him.”

Tom hums in agreement before turning his eyes to Killian. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, reaching forward and studying Killian’s clothes with pleasant confusion on his weathered features. “Tom Riley. Parks Enforcement Patrol.”

Killian lets go of his belt in order to shake hands. “Killian Jones.”

“Killian’s a friend,” Emma interjects quickly. “He’s tagging along. It’s kind of a long story.”

Tom gives Killian a last curious once-over and shrugs, turning his attention back to her. “So he’s not your new partner,” he says with a jesting smile.

She snorts. “Please. How long have you known me?” There’s movement outside the window, and she cranes her head. “Cops are here. Time to go.”

The three of them make for the exit with Tom taking the lead. As soon as Emma’s friend presses the door open, Killian can see two uniformed officers in dark blue arriving at the top of the stairs. Tom indicates to them with a pointed look toward Rathburn. One officer nods, and he and his partner move off in that direction as Tom, Emma, and Killian step outside the chess house but hang back at a relative distance to observe. Around them, a few other players take notice of the police presence and pause their games to watch with varying levels of apprehension and interest.

The police approach Rathburn and his companion. “Excuse me,” the first officer says in a raised voice.

Rathburn looks up, and the blood drains from his face. He swears loudly and leaps to his feet, his wild eyes searching for an escape as the officers place hands on their holstered weapons. He barks at his companion to run. The other man sweeps his hand across their table, scattering chess pieces everywhere as he ducks off his bench and flees toward the rear of the chess house while Rathburn backs up to the iron railing that encircles the pavilion and swings himself over the side, dropping onto the worn rocky slope below. He scrambles down the hill toward the foot path, angling east. 

One officer draws his weapon and rushes to the railing yelling for Rathburn to freeze, but the man is already halfway down the hill and has no intention of heeding him. The other officer turns to head for the stairs and slips on a chess piece, crashing to the ground and striking the back of his head on the paving stones.

Emma hisses as the chaos unfolds. “Son of a bitch.” She launches forward, sidestepping the fallen policeman. “Tom! Help him!” she hollers over her shoulder. She runs up to the railing where the first officer stands calling into a little black box on his shoulder for back-up and vaults herself over.

“Emma!” Tom calls in protest, but she’s already gone, her blonde hair flashing in the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees as she navigates her way down the stony terrain.

Killian looks around quickly and breaks for the staircase, scurrying down the steps back to the footpath as fast as he can, his heart pumping with increasing fervor in his chest. Emma may be accustomed to chasing on foot, but he sees a better option. He covers the last few steps in one leap and hurries to untie Tom’s horse. She gives a surprised whinny and blows at the sight of his unfamiliar face. “Come,” he mutters to her, gently tugging at her bridle to turn her head in the direction of the chase. “The lady needs our help.”

In a moment he’s up in the saddle, and he wastes little time getting his seat and gathering the reins before jerking his heels and asking her to gallop. The mare responds admirably, breaking into a canter and then gaining speed as he guides her after Emma and the man, who have turned at a junction and are now heading north. 

“Hyah!” His voice rings out as they fly, urging the mare on and drawing the attention of park-goers on the path ahead of them. Yelps arise and people scatter, and the way clears as they race to catch up with Emma. She’s running full-out, arms and legs pumping, hair streaming behind her, but though she’s fleet-footed and acquitting herself well, she doesn’t have Rathburn’s long stride, and the gap between them has grown considerably by the time Killian passes her. 

The trees thin out just then, and he can see their man traverse a road just up ahead. Killian shoots a glance up and down the empty street and charges the mare across, and she clears the low fence-post barrier on the far side effortlessly.

They come up on Rathburn as he cuts his way across a grassy area dotted with trees and lampposts that stretches out between a wide avenue lined with statues on the right and an enormous open meadow to their left. The horse closes the remaining distance, her hooves pounding the earth like drums of impending doom, and Rathburn yells unintelligibly when he catches a glimpse of them over his shoulder. Killian sets his jaw and reaches down, launching himself sideways out of the saddle and tackling the man to the ground. They tumble to the grass in a tangle of struggling limbs, rolling and wrestling as they desperately fight for dominance. Killian manages to throw himself over the heavier man’s torso and sees Rathburn’s right hand come up wielding a gun just in time to pin the man’s wrist to the earth with his hook. Rathburn’s face is red as he roars and reaches up to wrap his other beefy hand around Killian’s throat in an uncoordinated attempt to either strangle him or force him away. Killian grunts at the pressure on his windpipe and lashes out with his right arm, breaking the man’s grip on him before throwing his whole shoulder into a cross punch that hits home. Rathburn’s eyes roll up into his head, and he falls back.

Killian hovers over the man’s body for a moment, chest heaving, before pulling his hook free and sitting up on his haunches. He grimaces and gives his sore hand a shake, splaying his fingers to examine his knuckles for injury before grunting and climbing to his feet. He coughs and absently rubs his throat, throwing a glare at the unconscious man and taking some satisfaction from the imprint of his rings near Rathburn’s cheekbone. “Don’t feel bad, mate,” he mutters gruffly. “More formidable foes than you have tried to choke me and failed.”

“Killian!”

Killian turns to see Emma running up to him, her face pink with exertion and shock. Her eyes are huge, and he smiles at her concerned expression, even as he rolls his left shoulder and winces. “Swan.”

“Oh my god. You just… How did you…?” She stares at him, then down at Rathburn, then back up at him, stunned.

Killian smiles grimly and nudges the man with the toe of his boot. “I suppose you were right, love,” he comments. “I didn’t need my sword.” She continues to gape as he turns. “Kindly stay with him while I fetch your friend’s horse, will you?”

 

* * *

 

As shocked as she continues to be at having witnessed Killian run her man down on actual horseback like some Hollywood hero, Emma can’t help but laugh at the wonderment on everyone else’s face when they arrive to find Joe Rathburn laid out on the ground with Killian hovering nearby, calmly patting Tom’s horse on the nose as though he’s just been out for a relaxing ride. 

The look on Tom’s face is particularly priceless when Killian walks the horse over to him and hands her off.

“Apologies for borrowing your mare, mate,” he tells him, with a gentlemanly bow of his head. “She’s a fine mount.”

Tom grasps the horse’s bridle dumbly. “Thanks.” He swivels toward Emma. “Where did you find this guy again?”

Emma chuckles, arms crossed. “Like I said, long story.”

Rathburn starts to come to by the time the paramedics arrive to haul him off to the nearest ER in police custody, and Emma finishes giving her statement before bidding Tom a fond farewell and leading Killian away from the scene. The sun is directly above them now, the sky a lovely shade of blue, and the sounds of law enforcement and EMT activities fade as they walk southwest toward the edge of the park.

“Where did you learn to ride?” she asks him. She folds her lips when he throws her a dry look. “Right. Sorry. Stupid question. No cars in the Enchanted Forest.” She clears her throat. “Um, thank you for your help.”

Killian’s eyes dance. “You’re quite welcome, love.”

Emma’s stomach growls, and she’s grateful to be distracted from his modest little smile. “Come on,” she says, blushing. “Lunch is on me.”

They catch a cab to her favorite Midtown diner, a little corner place trimmed in neon signage and 50s-style finishes – stainless steel and glass blocks and black and white checkerboard. Granny’s has been her go-to haunt for years, one of the few places in the city she counts as a refuge, and why she feels like sharing it with Killian is a question she chooses not to answer as she leads him inside.

She slides into her usual seat at the formica counter, and a gray-haired, bespectacled woman bustles up and beams. 

“Emma!”

Emma smiles back. “Hey, Granny.”

Killian perches on the stool next to Emma’s, and Granny eyes him over the tops of her glasses. “Who’s the pretty boy?” she demands good-naturedly.

Emma feels her face warm and shoots Killian a reproachful look, but he’s too busy turning on the dashing rapscallion routine to pay her much mind.

“Killian Jones,” he volunteers, flashing a gorgeous grin and reaching forward to grasp Granny’s hand cordially. “Pleasure.”

Granny looks back at Emma wryly. “Does Walsh know you’re replacing him?”

Emma’s eyebrows pinch upward. “I’m not replacing him!” she says, her tone close to a whine. “Killian is just a friend.”

Granny tsks and shrugs. “Whatever, Emma. It’s your business,” she answers dismissively. “What’ll it be?”

Emma glances at Killian. “Do you want to see a menu?”

He leans his right elbow on the counter in order to angle a bit toward her, brushing his fingertips with his thumb absently, the red stones on his heavy rings catching the light. “I trust your judgment, love,” he says with a grin.

Emma chuffs and gives Granny a look, and the woman heads off to the kitchen window. “Grilled cheese with onion rings, coming up!”

“Hope you’re hungry,” Emma says to him. “Granny’s food’ll stick to your ribs.”

He smiles boyishly. “Famished.”

Granny returns to them with a coffee pot in hand. “No offense, but you look like you could use some caffeine,” she tells Emma, pulling a clean mug out from under the counter and filling it up, one eye narrowed at the faint dark circles under Emma's eyes. “You sleeping?”

Emma is only half-surprised by Granny’s insight. She gives a weak smile and accepts the cup gratefully. “Just up late last night is all. I’m okay.” 

Granny hums skeptically and plops a little caddy of sugar packets and creamers and plastic stirrers next to Emma’s hand. She turns to Killian. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

There’s the dull clink of ceramic as Granny sets a second mug on the counter and pours before breaking away to go ring out another customer. Emma empties a couple of packets into her mug and grabs a stirrer before sliding the caddy over to Killian.

“So, Swan,” he says thoughtfully, studying a little pink sugar packet with interest before tearing it open. “It’s ‘another day.’ Care to talk about your sleepless night?”

Emma raises an eyebrow and keeps her eyes on her coffee. “Care to tell me more about what happened with Milah?” she asks back, lifting the mug to her lips. She can see his forehead crease predictably at the name out of the corner of her eye, and Emma expects him to drop the subject, though in truth, she’s quite eager to know more about this mysterious woman, if for no other reason than it might give her a lead in her quest to figure out Killian’s true origins.

It’s to her surprise, then, that he hesitates, as though weighing his options. “You tell me why you couldn’t sleep,” he drawls at last, glancing down at the counter with a small, slightly sad smile curling at his mouth, “and I shall tell you about Milah.” He looks up and meets her eye soberly. “Deal?”

Emma lifts her head and blinks at him for a long moment, contemplating the honesty in his expression. She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Deal.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, you guys, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I took this long to get this chapter out. This 8k monster gave me serious grief with the writing and re-writing and overthinking and gnashing of teeth it took to get it to this point. Fair warning, I'm going on my 4th day of sleeping less than 5 hours a night, so there may be a little clean-up of typos and wording going on later. A million thanks to @katie-dub for being my sounding board for the diner scene, to @i-know-how-you-kiss for letting me whine to her repeatedly about how badly this chapter was kicking my butt, and to the rest of you for waiting so very patiently with nothing but supportive words. XOXO

Emma waits until Granny returns with matching plates brimming with grilled cheese cut into triangles and piles of golden onion rings. She flashes a muted smile of thanks at the older woman, and Granny gives them a subtle smirk as she sets a glass ketchup bottle directly between their plates and disappears.

Emma snatches the bottle up by the neck and twists off the cap while she gathers her thoughts, unsure how much she wants to reveal. Killian watches her shake out a dollop onto her plate and then accepts the bottle when she hands it to him, studying it before proceeding to mimic her with an adorable amount of caution.

A tiny smile tugs at Emma's mouth, but she briskly turns back to the matter at hand and clears her throat. As always, the first onion ring she touches is just shy of too hot to touch and just greasy enough to be tempting, and she dips it with a little sigh. “Walsh proposed,” she says quietly, taking a bite to give herself an excuse not to say anything else immediately.

The ketchup bottle pauses in midair, and she doesn’t need to see Killian’s face to know that he’s frowning when he sets it down with a soft thunk. “I see,” he says, sounding politely interested.

Emma keeps her eyes fixed on her plate as she eats. “Yesterday. Just before I met you and Henry at the library.”

Killian hesitates, as though trying to read her. “And you didn’t say yes?” he risks casually.

She glances up for a second at the tempting cakes and pies on display in a Plexiglas case sitting across from them before her gaze falls back to her food, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “I didn’t say no.”

He waits for her to continue, forearms braced on either side of his plate, his food yet untouched.

Emma heaves a deep sigh and tucks a loose lock of hair over her ear. “I don’t have a great track record with men,” she admits, her gaze rotating toward the ceiling, “But…” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her face as she tries to figure out how to explain herself without showing too much of her hand. “Things were… rough… back when I had Henry, and I’ve worked really hard to be able to give him a normal, stable life with a home and a family,” she says haltingly, playing in the ketchup with her half-eaten onion ring. “And now I have Walsh, and he’s great, and this is supposed to be the dream, right?" she asks, her voice growing earnest, "To have a nice guy want to marry you and be a dad to your kid?” She chuckles bitterly. “Only a crazy person would hesitate.”

Killian processes her words, his brow furrowed, a finger poking at one of his onion rings before picking it up to examine it. “He didn’t seem displeased this morning,” he points out, taking an experimental bite and then going back for more.

She laughs dryly. “Of course he didn’t,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Because he’s perfect like that.” The annoyance in her tone is poorly disguised.

Killian dares to grin. “You don’t like that he’s perfect?”

“I just said I was crazy.” She shoves the remainder of her onion ring vindictively into her cheek, chews, and swallows. “And the worst part is that Walsh _knows_ that. He knows what a train wreck I am in relationships. But he’s just so patient. He never gets mad or worked up over anything.”

“And that bothers you?”

Emma pauses. “A little,” she decides, her brow wrinkling.

“Why?”

She bites her lip and blinks down at her plate, deep in thought. “I… I don’t know.” She toys with another onion ring and sighs. “Maybe because it proves he deserves better than me.”

Killian snorts, and she looks up at him sharply. “I realize we haven’t known each other long, Swan, but I seriously doubt that,” he says. “You may have been abandoned and suffer from a serious lack of trust, but you’re still a bloody brilliant woman.” He smiles quietly before looking away. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Emma flushes only a little at the compliment, instead shifting on her stool so she’s angled to face him, one elbow braced on the counter. “Who said anything about being abandoned?” she asks coolly, suspicion creeping into her voice.

He shrugs. “You’re something of an open book,” he tells her, popping another onion ring into his mouth.

“Am I?” she challenges.

He hums low in affirmation. “I’m spent many years in Neverland, home of the Lost Boys. They all share the same look in their eyes,” he says, tipping his head toward her and meeting her gaze shrewdly. “The look you get when you’ve been left alone.”

Emma scrutinizes him back, desperately seeking a hint of dishonesty and, as always, finding none. Her heart pounds. Who the hell is this guy? And, weird fantasies aside, how is it that he seems to get inside her head so effortlessly? She’s worked hard to maintain her emotional armor, to build up her protective façade, and he just waltzes in and looks straight through it like it’s not there. “Yeah, well,” she turns away, perturbed, “My world ain’t Neverland.” She seizes a half-sandwich and tucks in, grateful when he doesn’t push the topic further and allows her to at least make a lame attempt to hide behind her grilled cheese.

Killian follows suit, sounding an indecent groan of approval as he contemplates the taste of the buttery, toasted bread and warm, gooey cheese. He makes quick work of it, boyishly wolfing his sandwich down with the enthusiasm of a starving prisoner of war.

Emma watches him eat, helpless to suppress a small, amused grin as he swallows his last bite and sweeps his thumb along the corner of his mouth to brush away a few errant crumbs that linger there in his scruff. “Good?” she asks.

“Mm.” He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin. “This realm does some excellent things with food.” He reaches for his coffee, his face splitting into a smile as the mug nears his lips. “Between that and the company, it’s quite the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” he remarks with a wink.

There it is again – his uncanny ability to make her feel both gratified and self-conscious as a school girl. She chuffs, her cheeks pinking as she bemoans his stupidly attractive face and her stomach flips for the hundredth time. Truthfully, she’d spent as much time last night trying to banish her unwanted thoughts about Killian as she had freaking out about Walsh. Not that she'd mention that. To anyone. Ever.

Emma coughs weakly. “So. Fair is fair,” she announces, raising what remains of her grilled cheese to her mouth. “Now you know why I was up. It’s your turn.”

A tiny wrinkle mars the spot between his eyes, his jovial demeanor fading. “As you wish, love.” He dips his head in acknowledgement. “But allow me one more question.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” she chuckles with a little shake of her head, taking a bite.

“You don’t have to answer it.”

Emma pauses mid-chew and gives him a perplexed glance. He stares back at her calmly, and she swallows. “Fine.”

He taps a finger thoughtfully on the counter. “Could it be that the fact your man never gets upset bothers you because you want to know that he thinks your relationship is worth fighting for?"

 _That’s… that’s…_ Emma slowly crumples up her napkin and drops it on her plate. _That’s… not crazy._ She frowns, actually taken by how not-crazy it sounds. How could a man who knows so little of her have come up with such a plausible explanation so quickly? Walsh sometimes jokes that she’s his great enigma, but Killian… nothing about her seems to confuse him. Or deter him from saying things that make her heart flutter. “I… I think we’ve established that I’m terrible at knowing what I want,” she reminds him with a nervous laugh.

“Well, _I_ know what you want,” Granny volunteers, walking up and pulling the apple pie out of the display case without waiting for an answer. “You want pie.” She shuttles their empty plates away and reaches for clean plates and silverware.

Emma gives a relieved chuckle, grateful for the distraction. There’s no doubt that Granny has been eavesdropping on their entire conversation – the woman’s ability to hear every word spoken in her diner is almost preternatural. “How do you know?”

“Because you, my dear, love my pie,” Granny points out matter-of-factly, not bothering to look up as she dishes up two pieces.

“You’ve also looked at that pie no less than five times since we sat down, Swan,” Killian adds with a knowing smile.

Emma swivels her head toward him incredulously.

Granny grins and hands them both plates, catching Emma’s eye and then shooting a pointed look at Killian with an expression that screams, “I told you so.” 

Is the whole world conspiring to make her life more complicated? “Thanks, Yenta,” Emma says flatly, arcing an eyebrow at her traitorous old friend.

"Mm-hmm." Granny hums triumphantly and walks away, completely unrepentant.

Emma gives a long-suffering sigh and shakes her head, reaching for her fork. “ _Any_ way,” she says, “I believe it was your turn.” She glances down at the sleeve that hides Killian’s tattoo and then back up at him as she puts the first piece of dessert in her mouth.

Killian’s grin dissipates like smoke, the laughter leaving his eyes. He nods. “Very well.” He taps the golden, flaky, sugar-crusted surface of his pie with the tines of his fork. “Milah,” he says grimly, “Was the woman I loved.” A small, sad smile pulls at his lips. “She was beautiful and passionate and curious…” his voice grows nostalgic, “And I invited her to come see the world with me the first time we met.” He pauses a beat, lost in his thoughts, before he sucks in a breath and his thick eyebrows lift with regret. “But she had a husband,” he continues, his back straightening, “and a son, and she did the honorable thing and stayed with them.” 

There's the clink of metal on ceramic as he stabs the pie with his fork. “Her marriage, however, was not a happy one, and in the end, she was so miserable that she begged me to take her away.” He shrugs helplessly. “I was in love with her. How could I refuse?” He hazards a glance at Emma, his eyes shining with bittersweet memories. “I taught her how to survive out at sea, made her my first in command, and we sailed the world as I had promised. We had nearly ten years together aboard my ship, and they passed like a dream.”

After his first bite of pie, he clears his throat. "And then her husband found us," he says, his countenance darkening like a thunderhead. “But by then he was no longer a man. He’d been transformed into a being we call the Dark One, an immortal of immense magical power.” Deep creases appear on Killian's brow. “I tried to protect her. I asked her to hide when I went to face him, but it was easy for him to overwhelm me, and when he threatened my life, Milah tried to strike a deal with him to spare it. In the end, he killed her – ripped her heart out and crushed it right in front of my eyes. And then he took my hand.” His voice is dangerously low now. He inhales slowly, steadying himself, his expression stony when he looks back up at Emma’s horrified face. “Pain is terrible, Swan, but sometimes it gives us purpose. I’ve spent a century and a half seeking revenge on the demon. I made my deal with the Evil Queen for the magic compass so that I’d have a way to locate the one weapon that can kill him.”

Emma’s eyes pinch warily. “Did you say ‘a century and a half’?”

“The magic of Neverland keeps its inhabitants from growing old,” he says with a grave smile. “And I was there at Pan’s mercy for a very, very long time.”

She fidgets in her seat. Convinced as she should be that the world Killian describes does not exist, none of this new information ought to give her any pause, really. But there's still something incredibly unnerving about how easily he talks about his imaginary life - something about having this young, handsome, intelligent, charming man tell her that he's over one hundred and fifty years old in the same tone he'd use to casually inform her of the time of day - that she finds increasingly sad. A little part of her has wondered from the start whether it could all be true, but the more time she spends with Killian, the more she wishes she could believe him and the more disappointed she is that she can't. 

Emma gives herself a mental shake and forces herself back to reality. She’s well-versed in disappointment. There’s nothing to do but move on. She wonders if she can get Killian to share something useful that will help her search for Milah’s obituary or death certificate, help her find the real woman behind his story. “Did Milah have a last name?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No. Last names are not common in the region she was from.”

She tries again. “And her husband?" she asks. "What was his name? You know..." she hesitates awkwardly, "Before."

“Rumpelstiltskin,” he growls, the word a quiet curse on his tongue.

 _Seriously?_ “Seriously?” She blanches. “The little guy who turns straw into gold and steals babies?”

Killian laughs so harshly that, for a moment, she has no trouble imagining him as a dreaded pirate captain, as _Hook_. “That barely scratches the surface, love. Whatever your stories say about Rumpelstiltskin, I seriously doubt they chronicle the extent of his dark deeds.”

Emma falls quiet for a bit, chasing the last few pie crumbs around the plate with her fork. Her mind is a muddle of confused thoughts, but one in particular begins to eat at her. “So, you’re telling me you’ve spent… all this time… wanting nothing but vengeance?” she asks at last.

Killian answers with a bereaved smile. “Everyone needs a dream, Swan. And Milah’s gone. What other dream do have I left?”

The way his blue eyes swim with mournful acceptance pulls at her heart, and he looks very different without the swagger and confident cheerfulness he normally exudes. Maybe she’s not the only one to wear armor. “That sounds like a lonely way to live,” she says quietly.

He seems surprised by her insight, the last vestiges of anger melting out of his expression as he blinks and licks his lips. “Aye.”

The vulnerability in his voice chips away at her self-control. Against her better judgment, she tentatively reaches out and gives his forearm a small squeeze. She hears his breath hitch ever so slightly at her touch, sees his eyebrows skyrocket, and for a moment she panics that she’s gone too far. Then his muscles relax beneath her fingers, and a look of solemn gratitude creeps over his face. Emma’s mouth crooks upward in return, and, his delusions aside, she starts to wonder if his miraculous ability to read her is simply a matter of one lost soul recognizing another.

 

* * *

 

The gemologist’s laboratory is a fifteen minute walk from Granny’s. Killian strides eagerly beside her as she leads him to 5th Avenue, passing half a dozen storefronts filled with jewels. Emma notices his awe as they pass each brightly-lit display full of sparkling stones. “They call this the Diamond District,” she informs him.

“No doubt why.” He imagines what his crew would do if confronted with so much temptation and shakes his head. “How do they protect themselves from thieves?”

Emma arches an eyebrow at him. “Getting ideas?”

He chuckles. “Hardly, Swan. Merely professional interest. When you work with other pirates, protecting one’s loot is as important as being able to acquire it in the first place.”

She rolls her eyes. “They have detailed security systems – motion detectors, advanced safes, surveillance cameras, you name it,” she explains. “Successful robberies from stores like these are few and far between.” Emma snorts. “Honestly, the biggest thefts that happen in this city are committed by bankers on Wall Street. Power and corruption is kind of a classic combo.”

Killian hums resentfully. “Now _that_ is a concept I understand all too well.” 

Though the building Emma takes him to is ornamented and grand and towers above most of the others on the block, inside, the office of the appraiser is a relatively small, much more modest-looking space characterized by utilitarian surfaces in white and gray. They enter a small waiting area, and Emma points Killian toward a handful of cushioned chairs along one wall. He obliges and watches her approach the woman seated behind the tall counter opposite him. 

“Hi,” she says, “We have an appointment? Emma Swan.”

The woman gives a courteous nod and murmurs that someone will be right with them. Emma retreats to the chair next to him, unzipping her jacket and crossing her legs restlessly. Glancing sideways, she plucks a glossy booklet off the small table next to her and begins to leaf through it, only to come across an article about engagement rings that prompts her to toss the booklet back down and shift uncomfortably in her seat.

As though her discomfort is catching, Killian’s knee begins to bob. He swallows and forces it to still. He’s being ridiculous. He shouldn’t care about Emma’s relationship. It’s none of his bloody business, after all. No matter how high his regard for her, she’s only a friend, a passing acquaintance. Her past, whatever the details, has clearly left her world-weary and skittish, and he sees nothing surprising about her hesitation to accept Walsh’s proposal. He sighs inwardly. There’s no doubt in his mind that Walsh is getting the better end of the deal, but Emma’s boyfriend seems a decent man nevertheless, and Killian cannot fault her desire for a stable father figure in Henry’s life. She’s trying to do right by her son, and he deeply respects that. Gods help him, it’s more than his father ever did for him and more than he and Milah ever managed to accomplish for Baelfire.

 _Milah._ His gut twists with guilt. He's thought of her infrequently since his arrival in New York, preoccupied as he’s been with Emma and Henry and the marvels of this place. After countless nights staring out across the waves or up at the beams above his berth wondering if he’ll ever be able to truly let her go, if there will ever be a time in his life when her face won't haunt him, this, _this_ feels like the closest he's ever gotten. But as much as he's resented being held captive so long by her memory and the ache of missing her, it occurs to him now that gaining his freedom probably means allowing the last piece of her (and a big piece of himself) to die. Apprehension floods his chest. He wonders what moving on would do to his thirst for vengeance. After everything he’s done to pursue the bloody Dark One, could he find it in himself to simply give up his mission? What would be his purpose then? He glances sadly at Emma. What other dream does he have left, indeed?

A weighty-looking gray door hung with the seal of the Gemological Appraisal Laboratory of America swings open at one end of the waiting area, and short, stout man appears. He has a mop of wiry silver hair that sticks up in places, a bulbous nose, and large ears, and he wears a mossy green sweatervest. “Emma Swan?”

Emma pops out of her seat, and Killian follows.

The little man smiles up at her and shakes her hand. “Hal Johanson. Come on back.”

He leads them to an office with a wide desk laden with devices. Killian recognizes a computer similar to Emma’s sitting next to a tall, odd-looking contraption with dual eyepieces. A giant lamp on a long, jointed metal arm is also present next to the computer, and officious documents line the walls. The nearest to him is emblazoned with the words “New York University” and confers Halstein Johanson with a Doctorate in Mineralogy (whatever that means). 

Emma, too glances, at the wall hangings. “That’s a lot of diplomas and certificates,” she chuckles. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were over-qualified.”

Hal smiles, settling himself into the seat behind his desk and motioning for them to assume the chairs opposite him. “I’m a retired mineralogy professor, but retirement was boring, so I do this part-time now.” He shrugs cheerfully, taking an audible sip from a coffee mug that features a photo of him and a little copper-haired girl making silly faces and labels him “World’s Best Grand-Pabbie.” “What can I say? I love rocks.”

Emma’s mouth quirks into a charmed smile.

“Speaking of which,” he continues, “I believe you have one for me to look at?”

“Aye.” Killian pulls the Sea Star out and passes it across the desk.

Hal’s dark eyes grow round as dinner plates. “Holy…” His lips part in bewilderment, bushy eyebrows knitting together as he stares down at the gem in his hand and then up at them. 

Emma tenses and sits forward in her seat. “Do you think it’s real?” she asks.

The old man holds the jewel so close to his nose that his eyes nearly cross and turns it slowly around, examining it from every angle. “Very,” he mutters at length, nodding eagerly. “Where did you get this?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Killian can see Emma pale, and he takes her look of misgiving as a hint that he should avoid telling the tale of his battle with the sea hag. He offers Hal an easy smile. “It was in an underwater cave,” he replies lightly.

“Where? Australia?” Hal scoots his chair over to the device with dual eyepieces and presses a switch on one side. A small but very intense light shines to life in the center of the machine, bathing a square black platform below in its glow. The professor glances at Killian questioningly before setting the opal down on the platform and leaning forward to peer down through the lenses.

Killian turns his head to Emma, who manages a subtle nod. “Uh, indeed.”

Hal adjusts a few knobs and whistles low. “This is the most amazing opal I’ve ever seen in person,” he breathes. “I can see why you’d think it might be synthetic, as big as it is,” he continues without lifting his gaze, “But this is most certainly the real thing.” The corners of his eyes pinch with joy. “Just gorgeous. Look at this play of color… And the brilliance… Lovely floral pattern…” He sighs elatedly. “I need a few more minutes to be sure, but there don’t even appear to be any faults in it.”

“Faults?” Emma echoes.

“Em, imperfections,” he clarifies, shifting the stone slightly on the platform to examine another section. “Cracks, patches where the color is missing, gray or brown lines running across the surface, that sort of thing.”

Killian leans forward. “It can crack?” he asks, his face growing intent.

“Oh, yes.” Hal’s head bobs. “Opals are more fragile than most gemstones,” he explains, shifting the jewel again. “They have about the same hardness as glass. It doesn’t take much to scratch or damage them. You have to take some care.” He pauses his evaluation long enough to fix them with a stern look. “You must avoid abrasive cleaners or chemicals. And you must never, ever put this in one of those ultrasonic jewelry cleaners. A crack in a stone such as this wouldn’t just dramatically decrease its value, it’d be a travesty,” he shudders. 

Killian nods slowly, not understanding all of the words the man is using, but getting the general idea. He swallows, a wisp of hope rising within him. The stone is prone to scratching and cracking, just like glass, and while scratching or cracking the stone is a far cry from destroying it, the news still bodes well.

“Now,” Hal says, pushing his chair back from the desk. “I suppose we should get to the information you really want.” He smiles knowingly and pulls the Sea Star out from his machine. “Let’s figure out what this beauty is worth, shall we?” He hefts it in his hand, his face shining with excitement. “I wager this stone weighs…” his eyes narrow, “250 carats. Give or take.” He sets the Star atop a small machine with a round metallic surface and presses a button, crowing triumphantly as a number appears in a small window. “257.8! My stars!” The little man cackles with delight, reaching for a pen and scratching out a calculation on a piece of paper.

Killian forces a wooden smile. As a pirate, the monetary value of the stone would ordinarily be the only thing he’d care about. But he already knows what the Sea Star is truly worth – thousands of innocent lives – and even he is willing to recognize that no amount of treasure is worth that cost. 

Hal completes his scribbles and taps the tip of his pen to the paper resolutely, his expression euphoric. He retrieves the opal from the scale and stares at it dreamily, a happy sigh escaping his lips as he holds the paper out to Killian between the fingers of his other hand. “If you’re feeling generous, a piece like this really belongs in a museum. You could consider loaning it out,” he tells them, climbing to his feet. “Allow me to take some pictures and type up the official appraisal, and you two will be ready to go.”

Killian voices his thanks as he grasps the slip. Hal turns and gets to work while Emma leans over to get a look at the paper. Killian can hear her sharp intake of air, and her wide green eyes stare in disbelief at the large figure underlined at the bottom.

_$39,500_

 

* * *

 

 _It’s real. It’s really real._ Emma’s mouth goes dry when the gemologist proclaims Killian’s stone to be the genuine article. Not since he produced the little satchel of gold last night has she felt so confused about who this man claims to be. A man with oddly detailed delusions and a pirate costume is one thing, but a man with those things who also rides a horse, fights like a bar room brawler, and carries tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of gold and a museum-worthy jewel in his pockets? Henry’s voice rings in her ears:

_You know there’s something to this._

As she and Killian ride the elevator back down to street level, Emma takes one last look at the official appraisal document before folding it up and stuffing it back into the envelope.

Killian eyes her with concern. “Are you alright, love? You seem vexed.”

“Hmm?” She does her best to wipe the dazed look off her face. “Oh. No. I’m fine.” She hopes the small smile she offers him is convincing. She can tell by the continued doubt in his eyes that it’s not, but he doesn’t press her.

For once, she’s relieved when her cell phone rings, though her stomach drops when she sees Walsh’s name on the display. The elevator doors part, and she leads the way through the lobby toward the main entrance, trying to camouflage her impatience as she puts the phone to her ear. “Hi.”

“Hi, honey. I’m glad I caught you. Is this a bad time?”

As stressed out as she is, she manages a tiny smile for Killian when he strides ahead to pull the door open for her. “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“Okay, so, I’m an idiot, and I locked my keys in the car,” Walsh says, sounding chagrined. “You’re, um, you’re good with locks, and I thought you might know what to do.”

Emma’s heart stutters. Walsh knows she can pick locks, but she’s successfully kept her ability to break into cars (and her history of stealing a certain yellow bug way back when) under wraps. “Uh…” Her face contorts into a conflicted mask and she winces, biting the bullet as she and Killian cross the street to the parking garage where they left her car this morning. "Yeah. Yeah, I can get it open for you.”

“You can? You're the best.” Her boyfriend’s voice rings with relief. “Sorry. I would call Triple A, but I don’t know how long they’d keep me waiting, and I left a catalog in the back seat that I really need for a client meeting at four-thirty.”

“No, no,” she says, frowning as she dismisses his apology, “Um, it’s fine.” She glances with uncertainty at Killian, chewing on her lip at the prospect of another possible Killian/Walsh encounter before pulling the phone away from her ear for a split second to check the time on the screen. “Is half an hour okay? We’re just finishing up downtown.”

“We?” 

Emma mentally recoils. “Uh, yeah,” she replies, doing her best to affect nonchalance. “I had to look into something for Killian, so we’re in Midtown.”

“Oh.” He sounds slightly put-out. “Well, yeah, half an hour is fine. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“Sure. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Emma disconnects and stares at her phone with a huff. “Guess we’re making a detour,” she mutters.

“What’s the trouble?” Killian asks, reading her reluctance. He reaches toward the call buttons for the parking garage elevator with his outstretched index finger and looks to her for confirmation before jabbing the “up” arrow and grinning at the way it lights. The weight of Emma’s anxiety momentarily lifts as she tries to suppress an entertained smile. The man talks about hunting demons and has a hook for a hand, but he gets the same amount of enjoyment from pressing an elevator button as a three year-old.

Her reaction only causes his grin to widen, and it’s obvious he knows how charming he is as he stands there and beams, looking proud of himself for having made her smile. Emma feels a flush rising in her cheeks, and she ducks her head hurriedly to try to hide the beginnings of a dopey grin. “Um, Walsh accidentally locked himself out of his car, and he needs help getting the door open.” 

The elevator arrives with a ding, and he motions for her to go first, as always. “You keep a key to his car?”

She trods inside and turns around, thrusting her hands into her pockets while he moves to stand beside her. “Not exactly.” 

Killian indicates the correct floor button with a questioning glance, and she nods and watches him press it with a flourish, his look of satisfaction only slightly more restrained this time. The elevator whirs into action, and he turns to her, awaiting further explanation. 

“I’m… good with locks,” she admits.

A scandalous smile spreads across his face, and she forces herself to look away before she mirrors his expression or begins to contemplate how well he pulls off the sexy bad-boy vibe.

“I knew there was a little pirate in you, Swan,” he announces proudly.

She chuffs, gaze falling to the toes of her boots while she tries to ignore the entirely inappropriate flutter of pride in her chest. “Yeah, well, seeing as how breaking into places is generally frowned upon by the authorities, it’s not something I like to advertise,” she says, “even if it does come in handy for work sometimes.” 

He chuckles knowingly, and she doesn’t miss the admiration in his eye as she exits the elevator and hastens toward the Bug. 

Emma gives an exaggerated sigh and rolls her eyes, the side of her mouth twitching. “Come on.”

 

* * *

 

Emma’s beau, it turns out, owns a furniture store. Killian is unsure whether to be amused or disgusted that such an exciting woman is paired with a man with such a mundane livelihood.

Emma guides the Bug into a parking lot at the rear of the shop and pulls into an empty space. She gives him the side-eye as she cuts the engine. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay here while I take care of this, can I?”

“And miss the chance to watch you work, Swan?” he scoffs, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. “Never. Besides, I should think that our little adventure this morning would have earned me some credit.”

She huffs. “Fine. Just… behave.”

They climb out of the Bug, and Killian throws her a wink over the top of the car. “No need to worry about me. I’m always a gentleman.” 

"Except for the whole pirate thing."

"They're not mutually exclusive, darling."

He waggles his eyebrows and grins at the little chuckle that escapes her as she slips around to the front of her vehicle and pops open the boot. Instead of her first aid kit, this time she retrieves a long flat strip of metal with two small cutouts on one end that make it bear some resemblance to a key. 

Killian cranes his neck to get a better look. “What’s that then?”

“A tool of the trade,” she answers, her eyes flashing cool admonishment in a way he shouldn’t find beguiling, but does. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Emma marches over to a dark green car parked in a spot labeled “Employees Only” and, using both hands, guides the metal down along the driver’s window and into the door. Her brow furrows in concentration, and he watches, fascinated, as she positions her tool by feel. A few seconds later, she jerks up on it with a satisfied grunt, and the metal pulls free. The car door opens easily when she tugs on the handle, and Killian chuckles.

“Brilliant,” he declares with approval.

Despite Emma’s clear effort to ignore his compliment, he catches the subtle look of gratification that ghosts across her face while she runs her tool back over to the Bug. When she returns, she braces one knee on Walsh’s driver’s seat and ducks into the car with a little sigh in order to fish out a set of keys laying haphazardly on the passenger side. The move leaves him blinking rapidly at her shapely backside for a second, and as impure thoughts of Emma Swan being bent over for other reasons flare to life in his imagination, Killian chastises himself by clenching his fist until his wound screams in protest.

Thankfully, Emma appears oblivious to his torment as she withdraws from the car and pushes a button on the inside of the driver’s door. The whole vehicle resonates with a dull mechanical click, and she hauls open the door to the back seat to pull out a thick book with the picture of a sitting room on the cover. “Mission accomplished,” she sighs, giving it a little wave. 

Like its owner, the inside of the store is completely agreeable, with furniture pieces arranged in tidy vignettes throughout. Soft instrumental music plays from somewhere overhead to help create a tranquil ambience that Killian supposes must put customers in the mood to buy beds and sofas and other creature comforts. It strikes him as a terribly dull vocation, working in a place like this, but he supposes that regardless of his thoughts on the matter, if Emma really wants someone who embodies the quiet, stable life, she’s hit the nail on the head with Oscar Walsh.

“Emma!”

They look up to see the man himself coming toward them and grinning ear to ear. Emma smiles and holds the book out to him, her eyes widening a bit with surprise when he pulls her close and steals a quick kiss. 

Walsh beams. “You’re a life-saver.”

Killian glances away, trying to ignore the way his gut twists at the sight of Emma kissing her boyfriend and inwardly snorting at the idea that this bloody amazing woman who spent her morning capturing a dangerous criminal instead finds praise for her ability to retrieve a furniture catalog. 

Emma chuffs. “It’s nothing,” she says, handing over the car keys.

Walsh glances over at Killian and does a double-take, his mouth falling open and his eyes lingering on the hook. “Wow. That’s quite the, um…” he gestures up and down, “outfit.” 

Killian straightens and cocks his head back, hand on his belt while he considers whether to take offense. His thoughts are interrupted by a female voice that comes from behind him.

“Ozzie? There’s a call for you from the warehouse. They need clarification on tomorrow’s shipment.”

Killian and Emma turn to see a pretty woman with blonde hair pinned elegantly atop her head and a sweet smile gracefully threading a path through a cluster of settees as she hastens toward them in a sleek white dress. Killian blinks. Though she carries herself with a very different air – demure and understated where Emma is straightforward and biting – the physical resemblance between the two women is striking.

Walsh flashes the woman a warm smile. “Okay.” He looks between the woman and Emma and gives a small start, as if remembering his manners. “Oh, Linda, this is Emma. Emma, this is Linda, my assistant manager.”

Linda’s dark blue eyes light with recognition. “Oh, you’re Emma!” She shifts the clipboard she carries to her left hand and reaches forward to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Emma returns her smile, looking slightly embarrassed. “You too.”

“I’ve got to take this,” Walsh says apologetically, giving Emma’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he heads off. “Back in a sec.”

Linda turns her attention to Killian, sizing him up with great interest. “Hi.”

He grins back. “Hello, lass.”

Emma clears her throat. “This is Killian,” she says hastily. “He’s a friend.”

“On your way to a Halloween party?” Linda studies his black leather enthusiastically. “You make an amazing pirate.”

Killian executes a courtly bow at the waist. “Why thank you,” he chuckles, meeting Emma’s slightly strained expression with a wink. “I do try.”

Linda turns to Emma. “I hear Ozzie talked you into the costume ball tomorrow.”

Killian’s ears perk up, and he tilts his head, one eyebrow inching upward as Emma buries her hands into her back pockets and gives a polite little laugh.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Are you going?” Linda asks Killian.

“I must admit this is the first I’ve heard of it, lass."

She hugs her clipboard to her chest. “Oh, it’s really lovely. It’s the Storybook Costume Ball down at the Woolworth Building. All the proceeds go to a charity that buys books for hospitalized kids,” she gushes. “Do you dance?”

Killian chuckles modestly and scratches the back of his head. “On rare occasion.” He shrugs lightly at Emma in response to the way she narrows one eye at him in surprise.

“Would you care to go with me?” Linda’s eyebrows angle upward. “I mean, not to be forward or anything. Just as dance partners. I was supposed to go with a friend, but he’s come down with the flu and can’t now, and I’ve been looking forward to it all year, and you,” she waves her hand in his direction appreciatively, “you’ve already got the perfect costume and everything.”

Killian hesitates. The thought of spending an evening watching Emma and Walsh arm-in-arm at a ball makes his insides churn, but Linda’s lovely face begins to falter at his lack of an immediate answer, and he finds he hasn’t the heart to say no. Liam always did tease him about having a soft spot for damsels in distress. He gives her a reassuring nod and a gentlemanly smile. “I would be happy to.”

Her face brightens immediately. “Really? Oh that’s wonderful!” She turns to Emma. “Perhaps the four of us could go together.”

“Uh…” The grin on Emma’s face is at odds with the tension Killian sees in her shoulders. “Sure.”

Walsh returns, striding up to Emma’s side and wrapping an arm around her waist. “Sorry about that,” he says breathlessly. “What’d I miss?”

“Killian’s agreed to stand in as my date for the ball,” Linda reports excitedly. “And we were thinking perhaps the four of us could ride together.”

“Oh!” Walsh’s expression is momentarily unreadable. “Um, that’d be fine, honey, right?” He glances at Killian before gazing down at Emma.

“Yeah.” Emma flashes her boyfriend a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes but which seems to placate him nonetheless. “Sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

The car doors slam in quick succession as Emma and Killian settle themselves back in the Bug, and she heaves a small sigh, inserting the key into the ignition and turning over the engine.

“Swan?” Killian eyes her from the passenger seat. “Are you alright?”

She preoccupies herself with backing the Bug out of the space, craning her head over her shoulder. “Sure. Fine,” she replies brusquely.

A line appears across his forehead. “Should I not have said yes?” he asks, peering at her curiously. “Do you not want me to attend?”

“No! No.” She shakes her head, desperately wishing the brew of unidentified emotions roiling inside her would disappear so she would know she was telling the truth. She makes a show of checking her surroundings while putting the Bug through a three-point turn, twisting in her seat to avoid the intensity of his gaze. “It’s fine. It was nice of you to agree to go with her.” 

She can see him nod slowly in the corner of her eye as she pulls up to the street and checks for oncoming traffic. 

“Do _you_ not want to go?” he guesses.

“I…” she merges on to the street and points them toward home, “I just don’t understand the big deal with these things,” she says. It feels like a safe confession. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be fun and romantic and whatever, but it’s just a night out in a poofy, ridiculous dress and shoes that are going to kill my feet while I try not to step on Walsh’s toes.”

Killian chuckles as she slows to a stop at a red light. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he concedes. “Why agree to it in the first place then?”

Emma tips her head back a bit against her headrest and sighs. “Walsh thought it sounded like fun, and I felt guilty about saying no,” she explains wearily, giving him a rueful sideways glance. “He shouldn’t have to miss out just because I’m not into romance.”

Killian hums, and she tries to ignore the slight tingle the sound sends down her spine. “Or maybe you just haven’t figured out what you find romantic,” he muses. “Romance isn’t about fancy balls and pretty gowns, Swan.”

Her brow wrinkles as she shoots him a dubious look. “First the true love thing, and now you’re schooling me on romance?” she observes wryly.

He shrugs, dimples showing.

The light turns green, and she focuses back on the road, lip between her teeth. “Fine,” she says at last, the word wrenching free from her. “I’ll bite. What’s it about?”

She hears him take a deep breath. “I think,” he says slowly, “it’s about feeling special.” His tone turns almost shy. “It’s about letting someone convince you that your happiness matters.”

Emma tries to tamp down the warm flush that blooms in her cheeks while his words sink in. “That’s all?”

“That can be everything,” he murmurs. He shifts a little in his seat and clears his throat, his tone normalizing. “Don’t aspire to be like every other woman in the room, Swan. The things that make you different,” he says, turning his head away to stare out the passenger window, “are the things that make you exceptional.” 

Emma glances over at him with wide eyes and looks back at the road ahead of her, glad that he doesn’t see how she swallows her heart back down and hastily blinks away her reaction to his sentiment.

Henry is camped out on the sofa playing video games when they arrive home. He perks up at the sound of the door and whips his head around, Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader freezing mid-battle on the TV. “Hi! Where’d you go?”

“To catch a villain, lad,” Killian calls cheerfully, following Emma over the threshold and pressing the door shut behind them. He holds his hook aloft to her. “Shall I take this downstairs?”

She pauses as she shrugs out of her jacket, her gaze flitting between the steel and his face. There’s almost no contemplation before she rolls her eyes. “No, I guess it’s fine.” She finishes tugging her arm out of the sleeve and thrusts her jacket over a coat hook, trying to ignore the way a genuine smile brightens his face. Emma hastily dips her head and hides the tiny grin tugging at her lips behind the veil of her hair as she leans forward to draw her gun from her waistband and goes to secure it in the safe. “Just try not to scratch the furniture, okay?”

“Did you get the bad guy?” Henry asks eagerly.

“Indeed we did.” Killian comes over and settles himself on the sofa with a satisfied sigh. He gestures toward the frozen image on the flat screen. “What are you doing?”

Henry unpauses the game and resumes his fight to the death. “Getting the bad guy,” he smirks.

Killian stares, fascinated by the animated carnage as the two characters on screen slash and parry with their brightly colored weapons.

“It’s a game,” Henry elaborates, his eyes fixed and hands jerking the controller back and forth.

Killian arches an eyebrow and as he watches Henry’s fingers unleash an onslaught on the little plastic buttons. “You call this swordplay?” he asks, nodding toward the controller.

“Not swords. Light sabers,” Henry corrects. “But basically the same thing.”

Killian shakes his head, bemused. “You do realize real sword fighting requires actual skills, don’t you?”

Emma swings the picture back over the safe and turns to see Henry finally triumph over the Dark Side with a little whoop. He sets the controller next to him and turns to Killian. “Hey, it took me two weeks to beat that level,” he points out with a sniff. “Trust me, there were serious skills involved.” He ignores Killian’s snort and cranes his neck toward Emma. “Can we go now?”

Furrows crease Emma’s forehead. “Go where?”

“Uh, pizza at Marco’s? It’s Friday?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows and clearly indulging her lapse in memory.

“Oh.” Emma feels sheepish at having completely forgotten. “Right.” 

Friday nights out at the neighborhood pizzeria have become a thing for them over the last year, a kind of mother-son date night. Henry loves the chance to stuff himself with a quality Brooklyn pie and play the “super retro” arcade-style games Marco keeps in the back, and Emma likes the idea of carving out some time each week to make sure she’s staying in tune with her kid as he plunges headfirst into adolescence.

Henry saves his game, switches off the TV, and hops up from the sofa. “Great. Come on, Killian.”

Killian straightens in his seat and throws a questioning look first at Henry and then at Emma.

Emma briefly considers the alternatives – canceling Friday pizza or leaving a hungry Killian to his own devices in her kitchen – before sighing and consenting with a weak smile and a tip of her head toward the door. “Wanna go?”

He beams and climbs to his feet. “Indeed. I go where you lead, Swan,” he says amiably, his smile growing brighter when she colors a little. “Just one thing. What’s pizza?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, friends - Chapter 7! Apologies for making you wait, as always. We had a death in the family last week and had to make an emergency trip out-of-town in order to say our goodbyes in time, and the muse was rather slow for a while after that. In addition, these chapters just keep getting longer and longer! For those of you (all of you, it seems) waiting for The Ball, we're not there yet, but we're definitely building toward it, and you'll still find some goodies here that I think/hope/pray you'll like. Thanks to @i-know-how-you-kiss for being my consultant when it comes to all things ballroom.

Pizza, Killian soon learns, is food, which, like the sandwich he had for lunch, is hot, smothered in melted cheese, and utterly delicious. His mouth waters in response to the aroma that hits his nose when he follows Emma and Henry into Marco’s, a little establishment housed in an aged red brick building a few blocks from their home. The interior of the restaurant is a mixture of warm lights and cozy shadows, the walls consisting of exposed brick or wood beams, and between the happy chatter and the heady scent that hangs in the air, it’s little wonder why Henry enjoys coming here every week.

Just as it was at Granny’s, they’re warmly greeted by the owner, an wiry older man with a polished head, a short white beard, and a kind smile. “Henry!” he says with a rich accent as he meets them at the door, “You’ve grown another inch this week!” He glances up curiously at Killian. “Brought a friend?”

“Marco, this is Killian,” Henry explains. “He’s staying with us, and,” he leans closer to the old man conspiratorially, “he’s _never_ had New York pizza before.”

Marco’s gray eyebrows go halfway to the top of his head with mock astonishment. “Oh?” He chuckles genially and shows them to a corner table. “Well, we can certainly fix that. What should I get you today?”

Henry glances between Emma and Killian while they circle into their seats, and Emma simply grins back and shrugs. “Your call, kid.”

“Pepperoni.”

It’s wonderfully strange to sit with Emma and Henry and listen as Emma questions her son about his day, his teachers, and his friends. To be fair, Killian has never really had the opportunity to watch mothering up close like this, to see the fond looks Emma gives her son when the boy is and isn’t paying attention or the glint of amusement in her eye as he rambles excitedly about “trick-or-treating” and something called a “sleep-over” at his friend Avery’s house tomorrow. Killian finds himself enchanted by the way she smiles at Henry, the soft joy on her face leaving no doubt that for all her grit and sarcasm, Emma Swan also loves being a parent. It makes his heart hurt a little, and he isn’t sure if it’s because the she’s so bloody beautiful or because he wishes he could remember his own mother well enough to know whether she looked at him or his brother the same way.

A long strip of paper strikes his cheek head-on, and Killian turns to see Henry giggling with the tip of what looks like a translucent tube between his lips.

“Henry!” Emma scolds. The effect is somewhat diminished by the upturn of her mouth.

Killian grins and pulls the wrinkled scrap from his lap, inspecting it with a peaked eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Straw wrapper,” Emma supplies, pulling another one of the tubes off the table, this one wrapped in an identical white paper sleeve. She tears the end off the paper and puts the exposed end of the tube inside in her mouth, turning toward Henry and giving a little puff. The wrapper shoots off the end of the straw and nails her son square between the eyes.

“Hey!” Henry winces and laughs.

The boy continues to entertain Killian by introducing him to soda, a miraculous beverage that tastes like an over-sweet, effervescent nectar. Henry demonstrates how to use a straw to suck the liquid from the cup and, much to Emma’s chagrin, how to blow bubbles in the bottom of the glass.

Dinner arrives, the enormous, shield-sized pizza covered with a golden layer of melted cheese and dotted with uniform cuts of a crisp, red sausage. Marco sets it up on a little metal stand so that the pan hovers a few inches above the table and then distributes plates before acknowledging Emma’s thanks with a nod and giving Henry a little pat on the back as he walks away. Henry is adamant about showing Killian the proper way to consume a slice, folding his in half lengthwise and then flopping the tip of the triangular piece into his open mouth, a huge, satisfied smile pulling at his ears when he rips off the bite and chews. The lad appears quite happy with Killian’s first attempt to copy him, and Killian is unsure which is more pleasing, the taste that explodes on his tongue or the brilliant smile on Emma’s face as she watches them eat.

Between the three of them, they polish off their supper in short order. Stomach sated, Henry hastily wipes his hands and asks to go play a hulking, mechanical game in the back of the restaurant. Emma benevolently hands him a few coins out of her purse before he scampers off.

Killian grins at the boy’s back as he disappears. “He’s a good lad,” he comments.

Emma beams. “Yeah.”

Killian suddenly finds himself wondering how Baelfire’s life might have been different had he grown up with his mother, and he folds his lips against the pulse of guilt that rises in his chest. “Does… does he ever miss him?” he asks, tapping a finger against the tabletop. 

It’s obvious by the subtle way Emma tenses that she knows the answer when she clears her throat and asks, “Miss who?”

“His father.”

A sardonic smile flashes briefly at the corner of her mouth. She reaches for her straw and begins stirring the ice in her cup in lazy circles. “You can’t miss someone you never knew,” she answers.

Killian’s forehead creases. “He died?”

Her brows lift, even as her gaze remains fixed on the swirling liquid. “Nnnope.”

His eyes narrow. “He left.”

Emma presses her lips into a grim line. “More or less.” She shoots a look at her son, making sure he’s still across the room engrossed in his game. “He doesn’t know about Henry,” she says soberly, her eyes falling back to her glass. “And given the kind of guy he turned out to be, that’s probably for the best.” 

Killian frowns, concern written on his features. “What did he do to you, Swan?”

Emma chuckles bitterly and shakes her head, still avoiding his eye. “You have your own sad story,” she says, “You don’t need mine.”

“Please.”

The word causes her to look up with an expression of quiet surprise, her questioning gaze darting across his face. At last, she sighs heavily and sits back. “I… I was an orphan,” she starts. “A baby left by the side of a road. I grew up a ward of the state, moving in and out of foster homes, never in the same place for more than six months.” She wets her lips. “The last place… it was bad. I was seventeen, and the dad… he tried to get me to…” 

Killian’s jaw tightens, his hand clenching into a fist beneath the table, and Emma looks up, slightly taken aback at the silent fury she reads in him. Her features soften. “Nothing happened,” she reassures him, sitting up and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “I reported him. And then I ran. Caught a bus to someplace far away and never looked back.” Her eyes grow distant. “I lived off the street and met a few kids there who taught me how to survive, how to steal, how to not get caught. And that’s how I met Henry’s dad.”

For the first time, there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice when she looks up at him and asks, “You know my car?”

Killian nods.

“We stole it,” she admits guiltily. “And by ‘we,’ I mean that he stole it first and then I stole it a couple hours later, not knowing he was asleep in the backseat.”

Killian’s mouth curls involuntarily, and he suppresses the urge to laugh, though Emma’s chuff and the way she ducks her head indicate that she, too, appreciates the ludicrousness of the situation. 

“We decided to pair up. Pulled some basic two-person cons and got enough to scrape by.” She shakes her head again. “We were young and stupid, and we had almost nothing, but every time we got away with something, it felt like we were on top of the world.” There’s a trace of nostalgia in her tone.

“You loved him,” Killian says softly.

A pained look skirts over Emma’s face, and she clears her throat again. “Like I said, young and stupid.”

“He didn’t love you back?”

Her brow twitches sadly. “He said he did. And I believed him,” she replies, “right up until he let me take the fall for a job he pulled.” She pulls the straw from the cup and begins to trace designs on her empty plate with the tip. “The cops were looking for him, so I went to go get some stolen watches he’d stashed so we could fence them and get out of town. But he tipped them off – told them where to find me. I got caught, and he…” she pauses, her eyes growing wet, “he was dust in the wind.” She blinks furiously, sniffling once before she succeeds in plastering on a look of cool indifference. “Anyway, I went to prison for eleven months. That’s where I had Henry.”

Killian absorbs her words, revulsion coursing through his veins at the idea of Emma suffering such devastation at the hands of anyone, much less a man she loved. How she could have come through it and been strong for her son… “How did you do it?” he asks. “How did you go from that to this?” He gestures between her and Henry.

He’s pleased when her face lights, the moroseness giving way to a humble little smile and the hint of a blush. She looks up at Henry. “I had him.” She bites her lip. “I almost didn’t. I was going to give him up for adoption. I wanted him to have his best chance at a good life, and I didn’t think that was with me.”

“What changed your mind?”

She chuckles. “Ironically, the foster system. One of the prison guards who was always really nice to me convinced me to delay the decision to give him up until after I got out. I had two more months left on my sentence, so Henry was temporarily put into foster care until then. I spent that time imagining him growing up like me, bouncing from home to home, wondering who his real parents were and why they didn’t want him, and I… I just couldn’t do it.” Her mouth sweeps into a watery smile. “Plus, as hard as it was to be a new mom while trying to put my life back together, it was really nice not to be alone.” She darts Killian a meaningful look. “It was nice to have somebody worth fighting for.” 

Killian acknowledges her words with a modest smile, hoping it covers up the heaviness growing in his heart. He’s lived a lifetime without someone worth fighting for, known the dull, unrelenting emptiness of remembering a joy that is no longer his. But now, sitting here next to Emma, resentful of this man who treated her badly and ridiculously proud of her for having risen above her circumstances, he realizes there may be something worse – finding someone he knows he’d fight for in a heartbeat, if only the chance were his. 

Henry comes bouncing back to the table. “Mom! Killian! I got a new high score! Come see!” 

The last of Emma’s solemn mood evaporates, and she laughs as he grabs her hand and impatiently hauls her out of her seat. She throws Killian a haphazard grin over her shoulder as Henry drags her away. “Coming?”

Killian blinks at her invitation and glances around with some uncertainty before he rises and trails after mother and son, feeling as if this is both the closest to and the farthest from happiness he’s been in over an age.

 

* * *

 

They celebrate Henry’s victory with a stop at their favorite ice cream place on the way home, grabbing cones and a couple of pints of cherry vanilla and rocky road for good measure. Henry goads Killian into telling them about one of his adventures, and Killian, to his credit, interprets the look Emma gives him correctly and keeps the tale relatively kid-friendly. Her son’s eyes shine with delight, his face covered in an ice cream-smeared grin as he listens to Killian animatedly describe how the Jolly Roger once simultaneously out-maneuvered and disabled three warships belonging to the corrupt tyrant, King George, stripping them of all their canon, weapons, and other valuables before sending them limping home to their master with regards from Captain Hook.

When they arrive home, Emma shoos Henry upstairs to get a head-start on his weekend homework before tomorrow’s Halloween festivities begin.

“Thanks for the story, Killian!” Henry calls as he thunders up the stairs. 

Killian chuckles. “Anytime, lad,” he returns, watching Henry’s sneakers disappear from view. He turns and joins Emma in the kitchen just as she's crouching in front of the open freezer drawer and starting to shift some items around to make room for the ice cream. 

She looks up as he approaches and holds up an ice pack. “Need another one of these tonight?” she asks. “All that excitement in the park today couldn’t have been kind to those bruises.”

He nods, looking touched. “Aye, Swan. That’d be nice. Allow me to wash and change clothes, and I’ll return for it shortly.” He flashes her a grateful smile over his shoulder and heads down to the apartment.

Emma watches him descend with an uneven brow and a plaintive sigh. She silently curses. She _likes_ him. As much as she’s tried to resist it, she likes Killian Jones – likes his charm, likes his wit, likes his sad, lonely heart and the goodness she sees in him despite his self-professed occupation and his quest for vengeance. And, as disturbed as she was by it initially, there’s something about his ability to see her for what she is – his penchant for understanding both her strengths and her vulnerabilities – that she thinks she might like too. It makes his enthusiastic embrace of who she is feel more… real. Odd to think that a man whose reality she questions seems to understand hers better than anyone.

There’s also the small matter of how a smile or intense look from him can take her breath away.

Emma packs the ice cream pints into the drawer. She can’t do anything about it – can’t talk about it, can’t clarify it, and certainly can’t pursue it – without risking her relationship with Walsh, her hope for some normalcy in Henry’s life, and her heart on a man whose origin she still doesn’t understand. She grimaces. And (she can’t believe she’s considering this) if what he says is true – if he _is_ really from some magical realm, then there’s no telling how long he might be with them. What the hell is she supposed to do? 

The freezer drawer begins to beep angrily after being ajar for too long, and Emma wearily slides it shut and climbs to her feet. She plods upstairs to put on her pajamas, resigning herself to the fact that she’s probably going to spend more time tonight with that rocky road than with her pillow.

She takes a few extra minutes to check on Henry before returning downstairs to find Killian back in the Mets T-shirt and seated in the kitchen engrossed in _The New York Times_ , his wet hair matted to his forehead and discouragement in the downward pinch of his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of the headlines. She can’t help but grin when she notes that he’s already strapped the ice pack to his middle.

“Anything good happening in the world?” she asks.

He glances at her with a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I’m not sure I can tell,” he admits, gesturing feebly at the newsprint. “Your world seems infinitely complicated.”

“Don’t I know it,” she deadpans. She hums and skims the front page as she passes by. “Trust me. You’re not missing much.” She moves around to the corner cabinet and reaches for her wound care supplies. “Need a new bandage?”

Killian’s face lights up, and he slips off the barstool. “If you’d be so kind.”

Emma steels her resolve as he comes near, willing her heart not to beat so fast when she takes his hand in hers and unravels the old dressing. “I, um, have some errands to run tomorrow afternoon before the ball,” she says nervously. “Would you stay with Henry while I’m gone?” 

Part of her wants to laugh hysterically. She’s just asked Captain Hook to babysit her kid. What the hell is her life? In truth, Henry is fine staying at home by himself, but as willing as she is to let Killian come along while she runs down suspects and breaks into Walsh’s car, she really doesn’t want to have a curious pirate in tow when her to-do list includes picking up what Henry calls “girl stuff” at the drug store and going to the salon to have her hair put up for the ball. And, bewildering as it might be, she’s grateful that she already trusts said pirate enough to leave him alone with her son for a few hours.

Surprised delight appears on his face. “I would be happy to, Swan.”

“Thanks.” Her forehead creases. “Um, no pillaging or plundering while I’m away, okay?”

He rumbles cheerfully. “Very well. I suppose we can keep the misconduct to a minimum.”

Emma gives a little laugh, her posture easing a bit as she winds the clean bandage around his hand. “Good.” She tips her chin toward his wound. “This is looking better.”

Killian hums in agreement, wiggling his fingers when she finishes. “Indeed,” he agrees, “Thanks to your excellent care. I owe you and Henry a debt for all your kindness.”

The sincerity in his voice causes heat to rush to her face, and she responds with a shy smile and shrug. “Well, I owe you for running Rathburn down today for me,” she points out, slipping around him to toss away the used bandage. She clears her throat. “I’d say that’s worth something.”

“It’s been a while since I played the hero,” he muses, scratching behind his ear, a grin curving his lips.

Emma gives him a quick look of approval over her shoulder as she cleans her hands. “Maybe you should try it more often,” she suggests. “It’s a good look on you.”

Killian straightens, his smile intensifying, and she can see him shift into flirt mode. “Is that so?”

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. You know what I mean.” She shakes her head, grasping for a change of subject. “So where does a pirate learn to dance? Don’t tell me you like to crash parties when you’re not capturing warships.” She leans back against the counter with her arms crossed and one eyebrow arched inquisitively.

He chuckles. “I may or may not be guilty of such a thing,” he answers coyly. “But it was actually my brother who taught me.”

Emma's brow wrinkles with interest. “You have a brother.” She winces inwardly when a shadow passes over his eyes and she realizes that as lonely as he seems and as old as he claims to be, there’s little chance his brother is still alive. “Sorry. You had a brother?” she corrects gently.

Killian nods somberly. “I did. My older brother, Liam.”

“And he taught you to dance.”

A quiet smile crosses his face, the memory keeping him from becoming too maudlin. “He did. We were young naval officers then. There was a ball to celebrate the retirement of our ship’s captain after a very distinguished career, and Liam made sure we both knew how to dance so we wouldn’t embarrass ourselves.” His eyes gleam, and he ducks his head, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “We practiced late at night so no one would see us. I’m sure we looked ridiculous, but he also taught me to use a sword, and learning to dance was far less difficult,” he laughs.

“It’s difficult enough,” she huffs.

Amusement plays on his features. “On the contrary, love. It’s rather simple. There’s only one rule.” He steps forward and executes a formal bow, extending his left arm to her. “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

Emma feels her heart rate jump as her eyes dart between his face and the proffered hook. “Okay. What _are_ you doing?”

“Offering to teach you how to dance,” Killian says simply. “Come. It’s the least I can do.” When she continues to hesitate, he gives a little sigh and glances at his prosthetic with a slightly hurt expression. “I don’t bite, Swan.”

“No! I…” Emma forces an apologetic smile. “It’s not that. I’m…” She steps forward and tentatively wraps her fingers around the cold steel, trying to suppress her tremulousness as he draws near and pulls her other hand onto his shoulder before draping his arm around her side. He holds her at a polite distance, but she swears if he comes any closer he’s going to be able to feel the way her heart threatens to beat right out of her ribs. Her eyes fall to the cleft between his collar bones. “I’m… I’m not good at this,” she stammers softly.

Killian dips his head and forces her to look at him, encouragement written on his face. “You will be.”

The patient conviction in his words surprises her, and she looks up again with anxious eyes. “You think so?”

He grins, though she catches some inexplicable sadness in his expression, and he walks them back a few paces toward the living room before she realizes she’s moving with him. “I’ve yet to see you fail.” 

She snorts. “You mean like how I almost lost my guy in the park today?”

Killian shrugs, his shoulder rising and falling beneath her hand. “Well, you had the good sense to bring me along to help,” he says blithely.

“Right. I’m a genius.”

“I can teach you how to ride a horse for next time, if you like,” he submits with a little smirk.

Emma rolls her eyes again. “One thing at a time, okay?”

“As you wish.” He hums low in his chest. “Now, just follow me.”

Emma looks down while Killian leads her through the basic waltz box step. Even in the intimate lighting provided by the solitary end table lamp, there’s something innocent about the sight of their bare feet stepping back and forth, their toes sinking into the thick pile of the living room rug, and she’s glad to have something to focus on other than the feel of his hand pressed solidly to her back or the proximity of his head to hers. 

He counts out the beats, his voice on the edge of a murmur as they practice, at last making a satisfied sound. “Very good, love. You appear to be a natural.”

“What’re you guys doing?”

Emma nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of Henry’s voice, and she springs back from Killian and whirls around to see her son paused halfway down the staircase behind them.

“I’m teaching your mother to dance for the ball,” Killian explains. “Care to try?”

The prospect of dancing with her son strikes Emma as much safer and less confusing than continuing to dance with the man in front of her, and she holds out her hand eagerly. “Come on, kid. You can do it.”

Henry rolls his eyes like he’s eleven going on fifteen but obediently drags himself down to the living room. “Don’t we need music?” he asks, eyebrows quirked with skepticism.

“Oh. Um…” Emma breaks away to fetch her laptop from the dining room. “Maybe we can find something.” She sits on the couch a moment while she locates a playlist of modern waltzes on YouTube, and a slow, acoustic version of Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway” begins to play, the guitar twanging in a smoothly marching melody. 

_Grew up in a small town_  
_And when the rain would fall down_  
_I’d just stare out my window_  
_Dreamin’ of what could be_  
_And if I’d end up happy_  
_I would pray_

“How’s that?”

She and Henry assume position, and, after a nod from Killian, Emma begins to count and lead her son through the steps. She relaxes and even giggles at his first awkward stumbles, but, as reluctant as Henry was to start, he picks it up quickly and grins once he, too, has mastered the rhythm.

Henry cranes his neck toward Killian. “What now?”

“Try leading her around the room,” Killian calls back amiably, arms crossed as he watches them from the corner.

Emma follows clumsily as Henry tries to pull her with him across the floor, and more laughter ensues with every stop-start, stop-start they make. Their struggle lasts a minute longer before Killian saunters forward and taps Henry on the shoulder.

“May I, lad?”

“Yeah.” Henry chuckles and lets go of Emma’s hand, taking a step back.

“It’s all about leading with your body.” Killian moves in front of Emma expectantly, and she obligingly sets her hands back in the curve of his hook and on his shoulder, trying to ignore the shower of tingles that sweeps across her skin when he wraps his arm around her and pulls her back into the box step again. 

“Your partner also needs to let you lead,” he adds, arcing a eyebrow at her. “A dance is often about being willing to surrender.”

Emma cocks her head back, her eyes narrowing. “Are you asking me to surrender, Pirate?”

He laughs softly. “I’m not asking you to give up your free will, Swan.” He steps a little closer, searching her face, his smile fading into an expression that borders on imploring. “I’m just asking you to trust me.”

She swallows thickly, her lashes fluttering as her gaze falls to his chest and she finds it in herself to nod.

_I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly_  
_I’ll do what it takes till I touch the sky_  
_And I’ll make a wish, take a chance, make a change_  
_And breakaway_

Killian turns them a little and then travels backward, guiding her gently around the small space. She focuses on the movement of his torso, on tracking him and mirroring him, and it does indeed go better. It’s amazing how graceful he is on his feet, she thinks, how easily he navigates them back and forth across the carpet, and despite her reservations about dancing (and about dancing with him), she finds she’s actually enjoying herself. A little. Maybe.

He grins his approval. “Very nice, Swan. Care to try a turn?”

Henry’s cell phone ringer interrupts them, and Emma glances over in time to see her son check his screen and flush a deep crimson. “I’m gonna go upstairs,” he blurts, and they watch him beat a hasty retreat, his feet pounding the path back up to his bedroom like the devil is on his heels.

“Say hi to Violet for me,” she calls with a knowing smirk.

“Violet?” Killian asks curiously.

Emma hums, staring after her son. “A friend from school. Henry’s had a crush on her for months.”

“Ah.” Killian’s eyes spark with recognition, and he grins. “Young love.”

“Yeah, it’s cute. You should see the way he looks at her,” she says fondly. She turns her attention back to Killian, and her smile falls away as they lock eyes.

“How does he look at her?” His voice is quiet.

The song ends, and they stand there in temporary silence while she takes in the awe in his stare, the hopeful bent of his brow, and the slight color in his cheeks. _Like this._ She licks her lips. “Like she hung the moon.”

The next song begins with a simple folksy melody on piano before Adele’s throaty voice begins to croon an R&B-style tune.**

_You’ve been on my mind_  
_I grow fonder every day_  
_Lose myself in time_  
_Just thinking of your face_  
_God only knows_  
_Why it’s taken me so long_  
_To let my doubts go_  
_You’re the only one that I want_

Killian wordlessly begins to lead her around the room again, their tandem sway feeling more and more natural to her despite the incessant pounding of her pulse in her ears.

“Try a turn,” he tells her again, his voice a little coarse this time. He raises his hook above her head and nudges her into a turn with a gentle press of his hand to her shoulder blade. Emma spins accordingly, her right hand releasing his hook and catching it again, and when she returns to him, they somehow both deign to draw closer together, her fingertips grazing his neck as her hand settles higher on his shoulder and his arm tight enough around her that she’s nearly flush against his chest. 

They freeze, their feet forgetting how to move, and now she _knows_ he can feel the drumming of her heart and the shudder in her breath as she gapes up at him, falling into the depth of his questioning gaze. 

_I dare you to let me be your_  
_Your one and only_  
_I’m promise I’m worthy_  
_To hold in your arms_  
_So come on and give me the chance_  
_To prove I’m the one who can_  
_Walk that mile_  
_Until the end starts_

“Love?” he asks softly. “Do you want to stop dancing?” His eyes become tinted with longing and sadness, and she reaches up and ghosts her thumb shakily across his cheek. He turns his head into her touch, as if drawn to the contact, and they inch closer until his nose nearly brushes hers. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers. 

_I know it ain’t easy giving up your heart_  
_I know it ain’t easy giving up your heart_  
_Nobody’s perfect_  
_(I know it ain’t easy giving up your heart)_  
_Trust me, I’ve learned it_

And, God, he’s right there, his breath on her lips, skin and scruff beneath the pads of her fingers, and every nerve in her body is screaming to press forward, her eyelids growing heavy with the intoxicating nearness of him.

And then he’s gone.

The air seizes in her lungs when he suddenly pulls away. He takes a step back to re-establish the space between them, flexing his jaw and putting on a mask of stony regret before he offers her a half-hearted smile. “Apologies, Swan,” he murmurs. Cold surrounds her when he releases her completely, his arms dropping to his side like lead. “Perhaps that’s enough for one night.”

Emma manages a nod, trying to look appreciative despite the hurricane of emotions rising up to fill the emptiness left in her chest.

Killian angles toward the kitchen. “I’d best get some rest,” he says. He takes a single step and then pauses, glancing back at her with a forlorn smile. “You’re going to be lovely tomorrow.”

She blinks away the burning sensation behind her eyes and forces a small grin. “Thanks for your help.”

He bobs his head pensively and walks away.

 

* * *

 

What the hell is he doing? Killian settles himself on the edge of the bed with his flask in hand and hangs his head, the electricity of Emma’s touch still burning on his skin and the scent of her shampoo lingering in nose. It isn’t a matter of not knowing what he wants when it comes to her. He supposes, if he’s being honest, it’s never been a matter of not knowing. But what to do about it? He has no bloody idea.

He unstoppers the flask and tips back a mouthful of rum, exhaling audibly at the familiar sensation of alcohol searing down his throat. It brings him no answers – it never does – and he doesn’t have enough rum (or the desire, really) to get well and truly drunk, but he prays for whatever numbness he can garner from this small draught to come quickly as he sets the flask on the nightstand. 

_Destroy the stone and go home_ , he repeats to himself mechanically. He turns out the light and lays himself down with a low moan, the only glittering thing on his mind a certain pair of green eyes. The memory of the smile that accompanies them forms a lump in his throat as his eyelids fall shut to the darkness.

The following morning he finds Henry in the kitchen yet again, this time pouring orange juice into a glass from a fat rectangular carton. 

“Good morning, lad.”

“Hey,” Henry greets him brightly.

“Have a nice chat with your friend last night?” Killian asks as he settles on a stool. A wide smile splits his face as Henry’s cheeks goes ruddy.

“Uh, yeah.” The boy glances around, proving as proficient as his mother at changing the subject. “Want some juice?”

Killian chuckles. “Please.” He reaches out with a finger and rotates the carton a bit in order to read the labeling while Henry retrieves a clean glass for him. “Where’s your mum?”

Henry pours and slides the juice over to him. “Running.” 

Killian frowns, the glass halfway to his lips. “Sorry?”

“She went for a run,” Henry says again, putting the carton back in the refrigerator. “She’ll be back soon though.”

Killian gestures for him to wait, looking confused. “What is she running from?”

“Huh?” Emma’s son scrunches his nose, the little gears in his head visibly turning before comprehension dawns on his face. “Oh! No. She’s fine. She’s running around the neighborhood. For exercise,” he adds.

His explanation leaves Killian only slightly less perplexed. “She runs. For exercise.”

Henry leans his elbows on the counter. “Well, yeah. Lots of people do. A lot of people think it’s fun.”

“Henry, no one runs for fun,” Killian counters. “You run because you need to get somewhere quickly or because something is chasing you.”

Henry snickers. “Well, here, people also run to stay healthy or have fun. Mom’s getting ready to run the New York City Marathon next month.”

“Marathon?”

“It’s a big race. Twenty-six miles.”

Killian’s brow furrows. “How far is that?”

“Super far,” Henry says dramatically, draining his glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It takes her, like, four hours.”

 _Four –_ Killian grimaces. “All due respect to your mother, lad, but that’s madness.”

Henry shrugs, putting his glass in the sink. “She kind of loves it and hates it at the same time. Says it gives her time to think and keeps her fit.”

As ridiculous as running for exercise sounds, Killian realizes he can’t argue with the results. “I suppose,” he manages, rising to deposit his glass in the sink beside Henry’s. He clears his throat before he starts to ruminate too much on the various aspects of Emma’s svelte form. “What are your plans for today?”

“Mom’ll make pancakes when she gets back,” Henry says with an eager grin. “She’s always hungry after she runs, so Saturday morning is pancake time. Then I was gonna play video games until it’s time to pack for my sleep-over and get dressed for trick-or-treating.” His eyes widen with sudden excitement. “Wanna see my costume?” 

He’s running for the stairs before Killian has a chance to say yes, and it’s less than a minute before he hustles back brandishing an outfit that resembles a knight’s hauberk and tunic in one hand and a toy sword and shield in the other. Henry sets the clothes down and strikes a pose with the shield, slicing at the air a few times with his sword. “What do you think?”

Killian laughs. “Prepared for a quest, I see,” he says.

“Uh, yeah? A quest for candy.”

Killian points at the sword, which Henry is now wielding like a club. “Do you know how to use that thing?” he asks with a smirk.

Henry glances at it and swishes it through the air a few more times. “Sure. Slash and stab.”

Killian’s eyes roll toward the ceiling as he shakes his head. He slides off his stool and catches the sword mid-slash with his hook. “There’s a lot more to it than that, lad.”

Henry straightens, unperturbed. “Well, fine. Can you teach me?”

Killian surveys the boy with a thoughtful jut of his lower lip, feigning indecision before nodding magnanimously. “Very well.”

They’re in the living room working on Henry’s grip and stance when Emma arrives a short while later, damp with perspiration and looking a little tired, but with a healthy glow in her cheeks. Killian nearly drops the detached broom handle he’s using as a demonstration sword when he gets an eyeful of her running attire – a gray and black close-cut jacket and what could charitably be called trousers if they didn’t resemble a second skin more than an actual garment. _Bloody hell._ He knows Emma to be a compassionate soul, but he decides, while she toes her funny-looking white shoes off at the door and gives him a clear view of her tempting curves in profile, that she must now be determined to torture him.

His breathing borders on ragged when she turns toward them. Emma blinks as she takes in the scene – Killian modeling a defensive posture with his broom handle held aloft and Henry trying to copy him with his toy sword. “Um, hi,” she says slowly, looking simultaneously amused and concerned. “What’re we doing?”

“Killian’s teaching me how to use a sword!” Henry reports proudly.

“Well, right now I’m just teaching him how to hold it,” Killian clarifies. “Actually crossing swords comes much later.”

“Aww!”

The hint of a grin tugs at the corner of Emma’s mouth at her son’s very vocal disappointment. She narrows one eye at Killian, though he’s gratified to see that she’s clearly not angry. “I thought I said no pillaging,” she says archly.

He abandons his stance, giving her a little bow. “And I gave you my word, Swan – we’ll do nothing that would land us in the brig.” He allows himself a boyish smile and hefts his broom handle, loosening up his wrist by swinging it in a series of alternating rotations before he launches into a complicated set of cuts and blocks that make up a movement drill he’s known so long, he could do it in his sleep. “Swordplay is a noble art that takes practice and discipline,” he says as the wooden rod swipes purposefully through the air. He shoots a dry look at the large screen where Henry had been staging his imaginary battle the day before. “And it seemed like a better use of the lad’s time than any game.”

Henry’s mouth is agape with delight as he watches the demonstration, and Emma, to Killian’s smug satisfaction, also appears suitably impressed. She stares at him, looking dazed for a moment before turning to go upstairs. “Right. Well, maybe you swashbucklers could take the lesson downstairs or outside where there’s less you can break,” she says hurriedly. “I’m gonna go grab a shower.”

“Pancakes?” Henry reminds her hopefully, a well-timed gurgle from his stomach causing her to chuckle.

She grins and amends her statement. “Shower, then pancakes.”

Killian tries to avoid ogling the sway of her hips as she and her indecent clothing make their way up the stairs. Admittedly, it’s a poor effort, but his imagination has blessedly little time to take the image and run with it before Henry pokes his arm with the fake sword. 

“It’s cold outside. Can we go downstairs?”

They resume their lesson in the front part of the basement apartment, and Killian abandons his broom handle in favor of continuing with his cutlass. 

“Whoa…” Henry’s awed smile stretches ear to ear as the blade hisses out of the scabbard and glints in the morning sun that streams through the window. “Can I see it?”

Killian grins. “I don’t think your mother would take kindly to you losing a limb,” he says. “This is no toy.” He gestures toward Henry with the weapon. “That said, when you have completed today’s exercises, you may try the grip just to a get a sense for the weight of it, yeah? But you are not to touch it without my permission.”

Henry nods solemnly. “Okay.” 

“Good lad.”

He sets Henry practicing a beginner’s cut over and over again in order to get him accustomed to the forearm movement. 

“What are you going to do while Mom’s at her fancy party tonight?” Henry asks, his sword wagging up and down as he works.

Killian gently uses the side of his hook to steady Henry’s upper arm so that his strikes come from the wrist rather than the elbow or shoulder. “I’ve also been invited to the party,” he replies. “One of Walsh’s friends was in need of a dance partner.”

“Oh! Cool.” A crease appears between Henry’s eyes. “Wait. What are you going to wear? It’s a costume ball, isn’t it?”

Killian shrugs. “People seem to think my regular clothes will be adequate,” he replies.

Henry’s frown deepens. “But that’s not a costume,” he points out. “You’re an _actual_ pirate. You can’t go as _yourself_. Halloween is about dressing up as something you’re not.” He pauses and shakes out his tired arm.

“Well, what would you suggest?” Killian lifts an eyebrow.

Henry thinks quickly. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Your mother asked me to stay with you while she attends to some things,” Killian replies, initiating another movement drill.

Henry squints. “Did she say we had to stay here?”

Killian cocks his head at the boy’s calculating expression. “I don’t believe so,” he says cautiously.

Henry’s face erupts in a grin. “Great!”

“Henry,” Killian’s voice grows wary, “where are we going?”

Henry’s mystery destination that afternoon turns out to be a costume shop called Andalasia Fashions which is located about a twenty-minute walk away.

“My friend Avery’s aunt and uncle own it,” Henry explains excitedly as he reaches for the door handle. “She named it after some old Disney movie, I think. They have lots of good stuff.”

A merry bell rings as they enter, though it can barely be heard above the busy hubbub being generated by a dozen or so other customers searching for last-minute get-ups for Halloween. Killian doesn’t have any idea where to begin looking as he trails after Henry, overwhelmed by the racks upon racks of colorful costumes that surround them like jungle undergrowth. 

Fortunately, the boy appears to know exactly what he’s doing, heading straight for a man with silver hair and black glasses who has just finished helping a pair of middle-aged ladies. “Hi, Mr. Castro!” he calls.

The man turns and looks down with a broad smile. “Henry!”

Henry grabs the sleeve of Killian’s duster and pulls him forward. “Mr. Castro, this is Killian. He needs a costume that’s not so… pirate-y,” he explains.

Castro studies Killian’s clothes with fascination. “Why? He makes a great pirate! That costume is amazing.” He adjusts his glasses eagerly. “Where did you get that?”

“Er, I’ve had it a very long time,” Killian replies.

“It’s not from around here,” Henry says impatiently, “Look, it’s kind of a long story, but he can’t be a pirate for Halloween. He and my mom are going to that big fancy ball at the Woolworth. Do you have something else?”

The man brightens. “Oh, you’re going with Emma?” He looks Killian up and down one more time before snapping his fingers and beckoning. “I’ve got just the thing. This way.”

They fall into step behind him as Killian mutters in Henry’s ear, “Lad, I’m not your mother’s– ”

“It doesn’t matter,” Henry says airily, waving it off. “Let’s just see what he’s got.”

Avery’s uncle guides them to a corner in the rear of the shop and sifts through a rack of men’s costumes before pulling out a long doe brown coat with a high black collar, dramatic black cuffs, and a long line of small, gold buttons; the coat overlies a black waistcoat and a white collared shirt accented with a lacy cravat. “We got this costume for the _Hamilton_ craze,” Castro says, pulling away the cravat and unbuttoning the top buttons on the shirt so the collar hangs open wider, “But the coat collar is a little tall, and I’ve always thought it’d do better,” he holds it up to Killian’s shoulders and takes half a step back to appreciate the effect, “On a prince.”

Killian laughs and shoots the boy a side-eye glance. “I’m no prince, Henry.”

“Which is why it’s perfect,” he declares with gusto. “We’ll take it.”

 

* * *

 

The air smells increasingly of fish and brine as the forbidding black and white carriage tears along the wide dirt path that bisects Longbourn on its way toward the docks. Distressed cries ring out at the sight of the telltale ebony steeds and the knights who drive them, the air around the sleepy port town suddenly swelling with palpable tension at the unexpected arrival of the Evil Queen.

From the carriage’s plush, inky black interior, she sneers at the humble thatched-roof buildings and the plain, dismayed faces of the resident commoners that fly past her oval windows. The Queen curses the insolent pirate yet again for forcing her to come to a place like this in order to pursue him and reclaim what he stole. It’s taken a day and a half of traveling at a punishing speed for them to come all this way, and she doesn’t relish the idea of having to make the trip back. She sighs heavily. At least she can spend the return journey admiring the Sea Star and planning the last details of when and how she will execute her curse. Not to mention dwelling on the satisfaction of having made the Captain pay most dearly for his betrayal.

She feels the carriage slow as it pulls up to the harbor and hears the muffled “Ho!” of one of her knights. Her eyes land upon the twin masts of the Jolly Roger moments later as she climbs down from the carriage. The ship’s sails are gathered, and fewer than half a dozen men move about her decks. The Queen narrows her eyes with anticipation. _Sitting ducks._

Her sudden appearance in their midst in a swirl of purple smoke is met with panicked yells and the drawing of swords, but it’s a simple matter to disable every man in sight, steel thudding to the planks and bodies flying backward with a wave of her hand. Her magic flows freely, fueled by the power of her fury, and the look of terror on the faces of the pirates surrounding her, the eyes of otherwise fearsome men now shining with capitulation – well, she does rather enjoy this part.

“You are the men that sail under that wretch, Hook?” Her voice echoes on the afternoon breeze, and even the gulls fall silent in the presence of such obvious danger. “Pathetic.” She spins lazily, her eyes scanning the men in search of her quarry. “Your first mate. Where is he?”

She follows the darting glances upward and spies the red knit cap peeking over the edge of the crow’s nest above her head. With an annoyed flick of her wrist, the man poofs into place in front of her, his blue eyes enormous with shock and dread as he recognizes his change in surroundings and the threat of the woman that stares him down.

The Queen studies him with distaste. “What is your name?” she demands haughtily.

“S-Smee, your Majesty.” He folds his lips and stands at attention in spite of his clear intimidation, and she begrudgingly notes that Hook has properly trained his man to behave well in the face of authority.

“Smee,” she repeats, frowning scornfully at the bland little name. “I have a job for you.”

He blinks at her in disbelief, his mouth falling open like a fish. “A-a job?”

She nods curtly. “I had a deal with your idiot captain, but rather than deliver the Sea Star as he promised, he’s instead decided to steal it from me and flee to another realm.” She watches as Smee tries to process this information. “You,” she continues, “are going to get it and him back for me.”

His chin quivers. “Me? Go after the Captain? In another realm?” He shakes his head nervously. “All due respect, you Majesty, I—I don’t know if I can manage that.”

The Queen narrows her eyes, and she catches the familiar scent of abject horror rolling off him in the split second it takes her to reach back and plunge her hand deep into his chest. Her fingers close around the solid, magical surface of his heart, and she yanks it free with a grunt of vicious pleasure. Smee’s eyes nearly bug out of his head as he stares at it, red and glowing, in the palm of her hand. 

“You will,” she informs him, giving the heart a demonstrative squeeze and smiling with cold satisfaction at his strangled gasp, “or you will die trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** _One and Only (Adele)_
> 
> _You've been on my mind_   
>  _I grow fonder every day_   
>  _Lose myself in time_   
>  _Just thinking of your face_   
>  _God only knows why it's taken me_   
>  _So long to let my doubts go_   
>  _You're the only one that I want_
> 
> _I don't know why I'm scared_   
>  _I've been here before_   
>  _Every feeling, every word_   
>  _I've imagined it all_   
>  _You'll never know if you never try_   
>  _To forget your past and simply be mine_
> 
> _I dare you to let me be your, your one and only_   
>  _I promise I'm worthy_   
>  _To hold in your arms_   
>  _So come on and give me the chance_   
>  _To prove I am the one who can walk that mile_   
>  _Until the end starts_
> 
> _If I've been on your mind_   
>  _You hang on every word I say_   
>  _Lose yourself in time_   
>  _At the mention of my name_   
>  _Will I ever know how it feels to hold you close_   
>  _And have you tell me_   
>  _Whichever road I choose, you'll go?_
> 
> _I don't know why I'm scared_   
>  _'Cause I've been here before_   
>  _Every feeling, every word_   
>  _I've imagined it all_   
>  _You'll never know if you never try_   
>  _To forget your past and simply be mine_
> 
> _I dare you to let me be your, your one and only_   
>  _I promise I'm worthy, mm_   
>  _To hold in your arms_   
>  _So come on and give me the chance_   
>  _To prove I am the one who can walk that mile_   
>  _Until the end starts_
> 
> _I know it ain't easy giving up your heart_   
>  _I know it ain't easy giving up your heart_   
>  _Nobody's perfect_   
>  _(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)_   
>  _Trust me I've learned it_   
>  _Nobody's perfect_   
>  _(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)_   
>  _Trust me I've learned it_   
>  _Nobody's perfect_   
>  _(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)_   
>  _Trust me I've learned it_   
>  _Nobody's perfect_   
>  _(I know it ain't easy giving up your heart)_   
>  _Trust me I've learned it_
> 
> _So I dare you to let me be your, your one and only_   
>  _I promise I'm worthy_   
>  _To hold in your arms_   
>  _So come on and give me the chance_   
>  _To prove that I am the, one who can walk that mile_   
>  _Until the end starts_
> 
> _Come on and give me the chance_   
>  _To prove that I am the one who can, walk that mile_   
>  _Until the end starts_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies that this chapter took almost a week longer to turn out than I originally anticipated. It just kept getting longer and longer, and, OMG, the editing alone took three or four days, LOL. Thank you to everyone who waited so patiently and sent me words of encouragement as I tortured myself with this thing. I've been very anxious about this chapter in particular, in part because I know how much some of you have been looking forward to a certain ballroom scene. I desperately hope it was worth the wait. Thank you so much for reading!

Smee’s head swims as he watches the Queen slip his heart – his _heart_ – into a little velveteen pouch. It’s been a hundred and fifty years since he’s witnessed magic like this – since the Dark One killed the Captain’s love on the day that changed their lives forever – but never once has he considered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of it himself. He blinks as his breathing slows, the seconds ticking by with surreal sluggishness. He feels… hollow; like himself and yet somehow oddly detached. As excruciating as it was to have his heart torn from his chest, nothing hurts now – quite the opposite. Everything just feels… a little _less_. And maybe, given the nightmarish situation he suddenly finds himself in, that’s just as well.

“H-how—” He stuns himself with his ability to speak. “How will I find him?”

To his relief, the Queen isn’t enraged by his question. Indeed, ripping his heart out seems to have quenched her anger for the time being, as though she’s derived some great, twisted satisfaction from it. She reaches into the plunging neckline of her dress and pulls out a small glass vial, looking smug. Smee’s eyes widen when he recognizes the contents.

“You know what these are?”

He nods stiffly, gulping at the sight of the white beans.

“He used one to go to the Land Without Magic,” she explains, “Fortunately, I have a few more left in my possession. One of these will send you there. You will use the other to bring him and the stone back to me.” Her hand closes around the vial. “Go get something small that belongs to him.”

The sudden, inexorable compulsion to obey her catches him off guard, and he’s turned and set off for the Captain’s quarters before he knows what he’s doing. He’s struck by another pang of numbing fear as he realizes that Queen’s control over him isn’t merely based on the threat of death, but that the witch can literally force him to do her bidding like a puppet on a string now. _Dear Gods._ He descends the ladder into the Captain’s quarters and steals a moment for a deep breath, clapping his hand to the top of his head. Even the soft feel of his grandmother’s knitting beneath his fingers is of little comfort. He’s not sure anything can save him now. 

The room is tidy as ever, the way the Captain always leaves it when he departs the ship. Smee’s eyes dart around nervously as he considers his options. Something small. He turns right and moves toward the shadowy shelves in the corner where the Captain keeps trinkets and trophies from past conquests. Smee swallows. After a lifetime of not being allowed to touch the Captain’s things without permission, it feels surreal to be looking through his effects, and despite the urgency of the situation, he still takes care not to disturb the items too much as his hand hovers over each in turn. Most he passes over. He needs something that belongs to _him_ , not a stolen piece of memorabilia. At last his gaze falls upon a carved wooden box, and he flips the lid, feeling a modest surge of triumph at the sight of the gloved fake hand the Captain wears in lieu of his hook when circumstances call for less notoriety. Smee snatches it up, closes the box, and dashes back to the deck.

The Queen raises an eyebrow, her expression almost incredulous when she sees what he’s brought back. “Interesting choice,” she comments dryly. “Very well. Hold it tight.” She produces another tiny vial, this one full of a light blue liquid, which she uncorks and sprinkles on the attachment. The liquid vanishes magically as it strikes the black leather. “This is a locator potion,” she explains. “It causes an object to return to its rightful owner. You can’t cast spells in the Land Without Magic, but an item that’s already enchanted should still work there.”

No sooner has she spoken when Smee feels the hand begin to pull away, and he gasps.

“Don’t lose it,” she snaps. “We can’t have you wasting time bumbling around trying to find him on your own.”

He nods hurriedly and tucks the hand into one of his inner coat pockets, buttoning it closed to secure it. “What if he won’t come? There aren’t many who could subdue the Captain if it comes to swords,” he points out, his words laced with anxiety.

The Queen sneers. “Fortunately for you, I’ve considered that as well.” She pulls out one final bottle and waves her hand over it. The clear liquid inside briefly glows a bright purple. “A sleeping curse,” she says. “Whoever drinks it will fall into an eternal sleep, and believe me, they won’t have pleasant dreams.” She chuckles darkly. “If he won’t cooperate, put it in his food or drink. He has to take it willingly. The magic won’t work if you force it down his throat. If you have to use it, I don’t care what happens to his body. Just bring me the stone.”

Smee stares at the bottle uneasily, nodding his understanding as she hands it and one of the two magic beans over. “A-and if I succeed?” he asks, sealing them in a small purse.

“Then I won’t kill you,” she says through bared teeth. “Now go.” She stalks over to the starboard rail with the remaining bean in her palm. Her other hand makes a flinging motion, and it soars away and drops into the ocean at a distance from the ship. The seas open up into a swirling, luminous torrent which funnels to the depths below, the sudden disturbance in the waters causing the Jolly to rock precariously in her moor.

Every man rushes to the side to get a better look. “Roberts!” Smee bellows to the quartermaster, tugging his hat down tighter on his head, “If we don’t return in three days, you have permission to take the ship and go.” He squints at the distance between them and the stormy portal. “How am I supposed to get out there?” he asks the Queen.

Her wine-colored lips curl into a saccharine smile. “Allow me.”

His scream dissolves on the wind as her magic abruptly propels him over the side of the ship, hurtling him through the air in a long arc, arms and legs flailing, toward a new world and an uncertain fate.

 

* * *

 

Killian and Henry return from the costume shop and resume their swordplay instruction in the basement with a good hour to spare before Emma returns. They hear her steps overhead a little after four, and moments later she calls down from the basement door that there are cookies in the kitchen if they’re hungry and she’s going to get dressed for the ball. The door shuts softly, and her footsteps disappear upstairs. 

Henry turns to Killian. “I should go put my costume on and get my stuff together,” he says eagerly. “Avery and his mom are coming at five.”

Killian nods, leaning his blade back against his shoulder and dipping into a little bow with a grin. “Very well, young master. Dismissed.” He chuckles as the boy clamors up the stairs in a jumble of wind-milling limbs. 

Killian retrieves his scabbard and sheaths his cutlass with a sigh, supposing that he ought to follow Emma and Henry’s example and change clothes as well. He considers his costume where it lies in a protective bag on the sofa. He can allow himself one evening of diversion in order to keep his word to Walsh’s friend. But tomorrow, he resolves, scooping up the clothes and heading for the bathroom, tomorrow he finds a way to destroy the stone.

He has to admit, he doesn’t mind the brown coat. It’s not nearly as heavy as his everyday one, and the finery of it – the silky, quilted material, the cottony black lining that matches the waistcoat, the stamped detail in the little metal buttons – reminds him of a different time. A time when Liam was alive. A time when they were young and optimistic. The bathroom mirror reflects his bittersweet smile as he scrutinizes his appearance and brushes the hair out of his eyes. Killian breathes a sigh, reaching for his belt and double-checking the attached pouches, determined not to let the Sea Star out of his sight. 

On a whim, he pulls out the compass, grimacing at the dented cover and the ugly crack in the glass. Much to his disappointment, the needle remains still, no matter which way he turns, and his jaw tightens with frustration. Worthless. When he returns to the Enchanted Forest, he’ll have a freshly broken heart and still no way to find the Dark One’s dagger. He sets the compass aside on the sink counter. Perhaps, he thinks sourly, the Fates intend to keep him spinning his wheels for another few decades.

When he arrives in the kitchen, he finds Henry wearing the knight costume and munching on what he assumes is one of the aforementioned cookies. The lad’s green eyes light up when he sees the brown coat, and he pauses mid-chew. “That looks really cool. You make a good prince.”

Killian grins and gives a flourishing bow, arms extended on either side. “Why thank you, Sir Henry. You make a very noble knight.”

Emma’s son giggles and goes back to working on his cookie, a round biscuit dotted with chunks of chocolate. He points toward a plate on the counter which holds a dozen more. “These are my favorite,” he says through a mouthful. “You gotta try one.”

The cookie is soft and sweet and truly indulgent, and Killian is licking a chocolate smear off his thumb when Emma’s voice rings out from the staircase.

“Henry, where are you?” 

“Kitchen!”

“I need help with this thing.” They hear her pick her way down the stairs and then bustle through the living room. She halts abruptly as she rounds the corner, her eyes growing huge when they land on Killian.

Killian stares back in wonder. It’s as though Emma Swan is an angel revealed, and, Gods, she’s the most beautiful thing he thinks he’s ever seen, a divine vision in a diaphanous silvery ball gown. Her tightly-draped bodice is held up with narrow straps that leave most of her exquisite neck, shoulders, and décolleté bare, the V-shaped neckline allowing a modest glimpse of the tops of her breasts. Silver flowers and wispy, gossamer feathers accent the bodice and wind around her bare upper arms, and a full, floor-length skirt blooms out from her tiny waist. Her hair is coifed in a loose bun at the back of her head with a few gentle waves left next to her face, and a jeweled band of matching silver flowers and sparkling crystals is nestled amongst her gold locks. 

She blinks at him with long, dark lashes, and her ruby-red lips part in surprise as she takes an involuntary step back, the shimmery, almost gauzy fabric of her skirt rustling softly and telegraphing the movement of her hips.

Killian shakes himself out of his stupor, his face a mask of wistful veneration. “You look stunning, Swan,” he says quietly.

Emma rotates her head slightly to the side, her eyes flitting up and down his ensemble. “You… look…”

He smirks, despite the hint of color that appears in his cheeks. “I know.” He chuckles when she rolls her eyes – angel though she might be, Emma Swan is still Emma Swan.

“Do you like it, Mom?” Henry asks. “We made him a prince for Halloween!”

Emma narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Her son has the decency to look a tad guilty. “I took him to see Mr. Castro while you were gone.”

“Henry…”

“I know, I know…” Henry grumbles. “I didn’t tell you I was going somewhere. But I had Killian with me, and we were fine!” 

She shifts her hard look to Killian and arcs an eyebrow in silent reprimand.

“I assure you, Swan,” he says, regarding her calmly, “Nothing will ever happen to the boy while he’s in my charge.”

The solemnity of his pledge seems to surprise and mollify her. She opens her mouth as if to say something and then clamps her lips shut. “No more secret outings,” she declares sternly.

Henry grins. “Done.”

Emma sighs and reaches behind her back, arching awkwardly. “Now come help me with this zipper.”

It’s Henry’s turn to roll his eyes, but he obligingly trots over as if he’s well accustomed to this responsibility. She turns for him, and they can see that the back of her dress is incompletely fastened. Emma tries to watch over her shoulder as Henry locates the tiny metal tab in question and gives it a tug. It slides upward all of an inch before he runs into resistance and the zipper refuses to move any higher. Henry tries harder with a grunt. “Ugh. It’s stuck.” They watch him make a few more attempts, to no avail. He steps back. “What do we do?”

“Um… here.” Emma walks over the dining table and rifles through her purse, producing a tiny jar which she hands him. “Pull it back down a little ways and put some lip balm on the teeth,” she instructs him. “Just don’t use too much, and try not to get any on the dress.”

Henry eyes the jar dubiously, but shrugs. “’Kay.” He dips his thumb and index finger into the jar and follows her instructions, smearing the waxy substance on both sides of the zipper. His freezes as he goes to reach for the tab again, shooting a look at his hand. “Uh, hang on.” He looks at Killian. “You try. My fingers are all slippery,” he says, abandoning the jar on the counter and moving toward the sink.

“Uh…” Killian clears his throat, eyeing the expanse of creamy skin running from the nape of Emma’s neck down to the middle of her back. She catches his gaze out of the corner of her eye and turns salmon, but she doesn’t object and quickly turns her head away. He steps forward, taking care not to snag the tip of his hook on the fabric of her dress as he uses it to carefully brace the bottom of the zipper. His fingers close around the tab, and his mouth runs dry when his eyes trace the light scattering of freckles on her back down past her shoulder blades to the top edge of her corset, the delicate eyelet lace detailing taunting him into wondering what the rest of it looks like. Even with the applied balm, there’s a fair amount of resistance, but he manages to slowly coax the zipper tab to the top. Emma shivers as he exhales upon her neck, gooseflesh rising on her shoulders, and he wonders, not for the first time, whether it’s good or bad that she seems as affected by him as he is by her.

Killian steps back quickly. “Um, there.” 

She turns back toward him, looking childishly shy as she tucks one of her curls behind her ear, and he smiles despite the pressure in his chest. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

She fusses over an imaginary wrinkle in her gown. “It’s, um, it’s supposed to be a princess dress,” she says. “As in _The Swan Princess_.” She raises her eyebrows at his lack of reaction. “The story? Is that not an actual person in the Enchanted Forest?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he says. “Henry, I thought you said Halloween was about dressing as someone you’re not.”

Henry dries his hands on the dishtowel. “Yeah? So?”

The corner of Killian’s mouth turns upward softly. “Your mother seems to have missed the objective.”

She rolls her eyes, but the heat in her cheeks is telling. “I’m no princess.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t be so sure, love.” He sacrifices caution in the name of good form and reaches for her hand, his thumb drifting across her knuckles as he raises it to his lips. His eyes return to her face when he straightens, and his heart accelerates at her breathless, albeit embarrassed, expression. 

A jarring series of loud knocks lands on the front door.

“Avery’s here!” Henry crows, scooting toward the front of the house.

Emma lets him by before gathering her skirts and following. “Why is he using the knocker?”

Henry turns the bolt back and throws open the door.

Killian nearly catches the toe of his boot on the edge of the rug when he registers the familiar wide-eyed face at the threshold. He squints. “Smee?!”

Standing on Emma’s stoop, a realm away from where he should be, William Smee looks up, his eyebrows disappearing up past the edge of his hat and relief washing over his features. “Captain!”

Emma stiffens, looking back at Killian with confusion. He carefully side-steps her, and Henry moves to let him through, the boy’s neck craned upward as he looks excitedly back and forth between the two pirates standing at his front door.

Killian gapes at his first mate. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I came to find you and bring you home, Sir,” Smee replies, clutching his gloved hands in front of his chest.

“Killian?” 

The small sound of Emma’s voice causes him to turn. She comes forward and rests a protective hand on Henry’s shoulder, her eyes filled with caution and disbelief.

Killian gestures. “Swan, this is Mr. Smee.”

Smee’s rounded jaw goes slack at the sight of Emma in her ball gown, and he gazes at her, entranced, for several seconds before remembering himself and hurriedly tugging his cap off to reveal the rarely-seen brown curls beneath. “Milady,” he says with an awkward little bow.

“Uh, hi.” Emma shoots Killian a questioning glance, and he manages the shadow of a reassuring smile. The autumn chill blows in through the open door, and she shivers visibly, her eyes flitting critically between the two men before she makes up her mind and beckons with her hand.

Killian steps back. “Come in,” he instructs Smee gruffly, his voice low, “And on your best behavior.”

“Yes, Sir.” The shorter man shuffles inside, his hat still clutched in his hands. He looks around with interest and awe as Killian shuts the door behind him. 

Questions and conflicting emotions battle for dominance in Killian’s mind as he secures the lock and clears his throat. “These are my friends,” he explains. “The Lady Emma Swan and her son, Henry. They have been kind enough to be my hosts.”

Smee gives another hasty dip of his head. 

“You’re from the Enchanted Forest too?” Henry asks, lips parted in a fascinated grin as he studies Smee’s heavy brown wool coat with weather-beaten leather trim and matching gloves. “You’re Killian’s first mate, right?”

The lad’s casual use of Killian’s first name bewilders Smee, and the man blinks dumbly at Henry for a second before he nods.

Killian pinches the bridge of his nose. “How is it that you’re here, Mr. Smee?” he asks impatiently.

Smee’s bright blue eyes hold more nervousness than usual, and he licks his lips. “The—the Evil Queen, Sir. She came to the Jolly.”

Fear and bile rise in Killian’s throat. It’s as he suspected then – the witch is seeking him and the stone. He silently curses his continued presence in Emma and Henry’s home, especially as Emma’s shaken expression floods him with guilt.

“She said you stole the Sea Star from her and escaped here, to the Land Without Magic,” Smee stammers. “So I... I made a deal with her.”

A storm flashes across Killian’s brow. “You what?” he barks.

Smee flinches. “We had to try to get you back, Sir. The crew needs its captain.”

Killian runs his hand down over his face. “What kind of deal?” he asks more quietly, voice edged with dread.

Smee fidgets in a way that promises ill news. “I convinced her I could get the stone back for her if she’d give me a way to find you.”

Killian narrows his eyes, thoughts racing. “She gave you a bean.”

“Two,” Smee corrects eagerly. “One to get home. And this.” He fumbles with one of his coat pockets and produces Killian’s fake hand.

Killian frowns at the unexpected sight.

“She enchanted it to find you,” Smee explains. 

Emma gasps and Henry utters a delighted “Whoa…” as Smee releases the prosthetic and it floats eerily toward Killian. Killian snatches it out of the air with a huff, the magic dissipating and gravity giving the hand its normal weight as soon as he touches it. 

“Is that your _hand_?!” Henry asks with delighted disgust.

Killian gives it to him to inspect. “Merely an attachment,” he answers distractedly. He fixes his first mate with a skeptical look. “Not that I don’t applaud your sentiment, Mr. Smee, but what exactly do you expect to happen when we return?”

Smee fidgets. “I thought you might give the stone back and perhaps she’d— ”

“No.”

“B-but Captain—”

“No,” he grinds out, doing his best to keep his temper in check in Emma and Henry’s presence. “Do you know what she wants with it?”

Smee stares blankly. “Sir?”

“She needs it for a curse that will kill all of Snow White’s people,” he growls. “That stone is worth thousands of lives, Smee. I may be a pirate, but I will not be complicit in such a plot.”

The blood drains from the other man’s face, his silence heavy with new understanding.

Killian sighs, and his eyes sweep the floor as he falls into thought. 

“We have some time,” Smee volunteers meekly. “I’m sure you can figure something out.”

Killian looks up. “How much time?”

Smee drops his gaze to the cap he’s still subconsciously wringing in his hands. “She didn’t say exactly, but I told Roberts he could sail the Jolly out of Longbourn if we didn’t return in three days.”

Killian considers this. _Three days._ If he’s learned something in all his years of adventuring, it’s that time is as valuable a resource as anything. _Three days to come up with a plan._ He glances at Emma and Henry. _Three days to say goodbye._ He swallows, trying to harden his heart against the tidal wave of melancholy that crashes upon it.

His eyes meet Emma’s. “We need to destroy the Sea Star as soon as possible.”

She blinks rapidly as she stares back at him, looking lost.

“Emma,” he murmurs. “Please.”

His use of her first name seems to ground her, and he can see the disbelief fade from her eyes as she steels herself. “I… I know someone,” she suggests with a grim nod. “He has a machine shop on Long Island. If the stone is as fragile as Hal says, a hydraulic press should crush it to dust. I can make a call.” 

They watch as she retreats to get her phone. “Quite a nice place you’ve found,” Smee comments nervously.

“Aye,” Killian answers, throwing Henry a small appreciative smile. “Henry and his mother have shown me far more hospitality than I deserve.”

“Where is the Sea Star now, Captain?”

“Where a good pirate keeps all his most valuable treasures, Mr. Smee.” Killian reaches beneath his coat and produces the leather purse that holds the stone, displaying it briefly before tucking it back away. “On his person.” 

Smee nods, his eye lingering on Killian’s unfamiliar attire. “And why the change in clothes?”

Killian sighs, having nearly forgotten about the party. “There’s a ball tonight,” he explains. “Today is a holiday in this world where it’s traditional to dress in costume.” His brow wrinkles as he considers what to do with his wayward crew member. “I’m afraid I have to leave you on your own this evening. I’ve agreed to escort a friend of Emma’s to the festivities.”

“What do I do while you’re gone?”

“Um…” Henry glances around, “Stay here.” He runs over and grabs the controller for the big black screen where he plays games. “Watch TV.” He presses a button, and the glass blazes to life with images of a car racing down a seaside road accompanied by dramatic music. “C’mere.” He flops himself down on the sofa.

Smee stares agog at the moving picture for a long moment before anxiously looking to Killian for a permissive nod before he follows Henry obediently to the living room, his round eyes fixed once more on the TV screen as he lowers himself onto the seat. Henry leans over and shows him the controller, his little finger pointing at various buttons while he proceeds to talk the befuddled pirate through the concepts of “volume” and “channels.” 

Killian leaves them to it, turning away and wandering to the kitchen where Emma is on the phone with her friend. She faces away from him, her eyes focused out the back window while she feigns cheerfulness for with the man on the other end. “I’m so sorry for the late notice,” she says, “But you know how kids are. Henry didn’t say anything about this project until today, and it’s due next week.” She pauses, listening. “It’s just a bunch of stuff from around the house. Some old Legos, a baseball, a big sparkly paperweight, a bag of marshmallows.” She opens a drawer full of knickknacks and surveys the contents. “A phone book, a padlock.” She nods at something the man says. “Yeah, we just want to crush stuff and get it on video so he can show it to his class and talk about how different materials behave under pressure. If you can run the machine for us, we’ll do the clean-up and everything. Whole thing should take an hour, tops.” She glances over her shoulder and makes eye contact with Killian. “Tomorrow afternoon? That’d be great!” she gushes. “Thanks so much. We owe you.” She chuckles. “Okay. We’ll see you then. Bye.” 

Emma ends her call with sigh, her lighthearted mask falling away. “Tomorrow at two,” she reports, weariness creeping its way back into her voice.

Killian nods gratefully. “Thank you.”

The worry in her eyes is obvious as she draws closer. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says softly.

He forces a little smile and nods again, though he knows she sees his own concern. “I’ll think of something, Swan,” he murmurs back. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s surviving.”

The corner of her mouth curves weakly. She tips her head toward Smee and Henry. “What do we do with him? Do you want to skip the ball and stay with him?”

Killian shakes his head. “I gave my word to Walsh’s friend, and it’s bad form to disappoint a lady,” he says. “Smee will be fine. Is it alright if he stays here while we’re gone?”

Emma’s brow furrows with reservation. “Is it alright if we leave a pirate who doesn’t know the first thing about the modern world unsupervised in my home?”

“He’ll behave,” Killian says calmly. “As unimpressive as he looks, he’s fairly clever and very loyal. He’ll do as I tell him. He won’t disturb your things.” He smirks. “I have a feeling your… TV?” he glances at her for confirmation, “I think the TV will be more than enough to occupy him.”

She snorts, relaxing a fraction. “With 500 channels, it better.” A thought occurs, and she raises her voice. “Henry, make sure he knows not to order anything off of pay-per-view.”

Henry’s brown head bobs and he juts a thumbs-up in the air in acknowledgement as he continues to teach Smee the finer points of channel surfing.

She gives Killian the side-eye. “You’ll explain the other basics to him before we go?”

He hums agreeably. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

He’s really a pirate. And now there’s a second pirate in her home. And a murderous evil queen awaiting their return to the Enchanted Forest. And she’s about to head out to a party wearing a ball gown fit for a Disney princess. None of it should make sense. None of it bears any resemblance to the thing she calls her life. And yet… 

Emma climbs back up the stairs, skirts bunched in her hands, in order to finish gathering her things. She fishes a pair of silver, open-toed pumps out of her closet and sits on the edge of her mattress, pulling her dress up so she can see her feet as she slips her shoes on. 

Her eyes stare, unseeing, at her footwear. She has no idea how she’s supposed to react to what’s happening – to Smee’s arrival, to the proof that Killian’s story is real, to the revelation that other worlds and magic and True Love exist, to the idea that Killian is being pursued by an Evil Queen, to the fact that in less than three days he’ll be out of their lives ( _her_ life) forever. When she’d agreed to let him come home with her and Henry, she’d never planned on letting him stay more than a day or two. But now? Now the idea of saying goodbye and watching him set off to brave a dangerous future makes her feel as though her bustier has been cinched so tight that she can barely get enough air.

Emma gives herself a little shake and swipes the moisture at her nose away with a finger before climbing to her feet. With a sniffle, she scoops her little silver clutch and a heavy cloak up off a side chair and heads back downstairs. 

She can hear echoing voices as Killian gives Smee a crash course on plumbing in the first floor bathroom.

“But where does the water come from?”

“Bloody hell if I know, Smee. I’ve only been here two days.”

Killian’s exasperated tone causes her to fold her lips together and suppress a dry laugh. She still isn’t completely sure why she trusts the man enough to let another perfect stranger stay in her home based on his word alone. It sounds incredibly reckless, but, as he shuttles Smee back out of the bathroom and gives her another reassuring nod, she knows – she can feel in her gut – that it isn’t. And that’s just it, she thinks, smiling warmly at him when he explains her “no swords in the house” policy to his first mate and takes Smee’s weapon downstairs – when it comes to Killian Jones, Captain Hook, the gentleman pirate who somehow sees the chinks in her armor and yet makes her feel strong, none of the rules that have governed her universe up until now seem to apply. 

The doorbell announces the arrival of Avery and his mother. Emma indulges the brunette soccer mom in some girlish squealing over her ball gown and a little small talk about their boys until Killian emerges from the basement and comes to bid Henry a good night. Avery’s mother shoots Emma an intrigued look, but Emma merely gives the barest shake of her head and mouths “Friend” with a tight smile as Killian stands beside her and watches Henry put on his shoes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Henry asks him anxiously, pulling his costume’s chain mail-like hood over his head and hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder.

Killian flashes a quiet grin. “I expect so. Good luck gathering your spoils.”

“Thanks.” Henry salutes with his sword before following his friends down the steps. “Mom!” his voice rings out through the open door, “Walsh is here! In a limo!”

Emma takes a deep breath and glances at Killian before going to retrieve her phone from the kitchen. 

Killian, in turn, fixes Smee with a flinty look. “Nothing but propriety, Mr. Smee. I expect the Lady to be pleased with the state of her home when we return. Am I clear?”

“Y-yes, Sir.” Smee nods submissively, clearly accustomed to taking orders. 

Emma looks up at them as she tucks her phone into her clutch, and sympathy plucks at her heartstrings at the sight of the shorter man’s overwhelmed expression. She quickly takes stock of her kitchen and pours a glass of milk, stashing her clutch under her arm so her other hand can snag the cookie plate off the counter. 

“In case you’re hungry,” she says, returning to the living room just as Smee settles back on the sofa. She sets the items on the coffee table in front of him. “Sorry it’s not much, but we have to run.”

Smee’s eyes grow wide at her unexpected gesture. “Thank you,” he manages. 

She gives him a little smile.

“Emma?”

They look up to see Walsh standing in the open doorway, a dark green top hat on his head and one hand poised to knock.

Emma straightens and forces herself to sound upbeat as she waves him inside. “Hi.”

Walsh removes the hat, his lips parted in awe. “Wow.” He closes the door behind him, his eyes fixed on her. “You look amazing.”

Emma colors and comes forward to greet him. He grasps her hands and kisses her on the cheek before standing back to take in her dress. “This is like something out of a fairy tale,” he chuckles.

“Aye.”

Walsh looks up to see Killian standing off to the side, and his brows pinch as he notes Killian’s change in clothes. “Hi,” he says. “You’re not going as a pirate?”

Killian shrugs, gesturing for Smee to pass him his prosthetic hand from the coffee table. “Henry thought this would be more appropriate for the occasion,” he replies, twisting off his hook. He slips it into one of his belt pouches and clicks the hand into his brace while Walsh gawks. Killian raises his left arm and smiles glibly. “Your friend would probably prefer a dance partner with two hands, anyway.”

“Oh. Um, right.” Walsh leans over to get a better look at Smee. “Hello.”

Smee gives a hesitant little wave, looking unsure if he should speak.

“This is...” Emma bites her lip, realizing she’d rather not take the time right now to explain to Walsh that she’s got Mr. Smee in her living room because Killian is the real Captain Hook. “I’m sorry,” she tells Smee, “I don’t think I got your first name.”

Smee blinks, caught off-guard by the question. “Oh. It’s William, Ma’am,” he answers almost bashfully.

“William,” Emma repeats to Walsh. “He’s a friend of Killian’s.”

Walsh looks one part surprised, one part pleased. “You found a friend of Killian’s?”

Emma smiles nervously. “It’s, uh, it’s a long story. But he’s also going to stay here a few days until we can make arrangements to get them both, um,” she licks her lips, “home.”

There’s a beat of silence before Killian clears his throat. “So, what are you dressed as, mate?” he asks Walsh politely.

Emma’s boyfriend turns and unfurls his arms grandly, showing off his dark green coat, pinstriped dark green paints, emerald waistcoat, and black bowtie. “Behold the great and powerful Oz!” he booms. His face falls at Killian’s blank expression. “You know? The Wizard?”

Killian feigns recognition admirably. “Ah! Of course.”

Emma suppresses an amused grin while she dons her cloak, but she catches Killian’s eye over her shoulder as Walsh leads her out the door, and her dimples flash when he gives her a wink and a little shrug.

Per Henry’s report, a polished black limousine idles in the street, and a uniformed driver appears when they step outside. Emma arches an eyebrow at Walsh as he leads her down the front steps. “Wow, you really went all out,” she remarks.

“Well, I figured the Camry might not cut it for a fancy ball,” he replies cheerfully. “Besides, I know the guy who owns the company.”

The driver swings the rear door open for them, and they catch a glimpse of bubblegum pink tulle. Linda peeks out and waves, her long hair framing her face in straw-colored ringlets. “Hi!” She gathers her voluminous skirts and shifts over a bit to afford Emma more room to maneuver through the door. “Oh Emma, you look gorgeous!”

Emma settles into a seat, feeling a little silly as she tries to smooth down the cumbersome layers of fabric around her legs. “Thanks. So do you.” She glances between Linda and Walsh, who climbs in and slides into the spot next to her. “So we’ve got Glinda the Good Witch _and_ The Wizard? Was I supposed to bring the ruby slippers?”

Linda gives a little laugh. “I swear we didn’t plan it this way. Apparently we just have the same taste in movies.” She does a double-take as Killian brings up the rear and climbs through the vehicle door. “Oh Killian! What happened to your pirate costume?”

“Apologies, milady,” Killian says, distracted as he takes in the cabin of the limousine, “Emma’s boy thought it a bit… tired. I hope you won’t mind being escorted by an equally charming prince.”

She laughs genially. “Not at all. You look very handsome.”

“Why thank you, lass. Might I say you look lovely.” He sets down at the end of the long, L-shaped bench, and the driver shuts the door.

“See?” Walsh asks Emma, leaning over to interlace his fingers with hers and press a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “We’re going to have a great time.”

Emma puts on an apprehensive smile and nods, turning to chat politely with Linda about her costume while Walsh continues to hold her hand and Killian pointedly diverts his gaze out the window.

 

* * *

 

The splendor of the Woolworth is something to behold, and even Emma seems in awe of the towering decorated ceilings, intricate stone carvings, and detailed bronze work that contribute to the grandeur. Killian cranes his head to examine the glittering mosaics above their heads as they wait for an elevator to carry them upstairs to the ballroom.

Linda, now sporting a comically tall pink and silver crown ringed with stars in addition to the billowing dress with exaggerated puffed sleeves, sighs rapturously as she clutches his arm. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Splendid,” he agrees. “I’ve never seen the like.”

The ballroom is a wide open space with a large circular floor of inlaid wood surrounded by pairs of narrow pillars that bear up lattices in a scrolling vine motif. Impressive, heavy-looking gold and crystal chandeliers hang overhead, and two large trees in pots stand on either side, each gleaming with small white lights as though host to a thousand fireflies. 

Roughly a hundred people mill about in a wide variety of elaborate costumes, and Killian is both amused and chagrined to learn that there are many more persons from his world who are known here as fictional characters. Some of the costumes and portrayals are more accurate than others, to be sure, and it’s all he can do not to whirl around on a man dressed in a long red coat, breeches, and a flamboyantly plumed hat whom they overhear introducing himself in a horribly, growly accent as the dreaded Captain Hook. Emma bites her lip and shoots Killian a look, her eyes laughing at his indignant scowl.

Dinner is served at round tables laid with fine china that dot the room’s perimeter, and the meal – savory root vegetables, roast chicken, and mutton steak paired with fine wine and rounded out with a custard called crème brûlée – is worthy of a royal banquet. Walsh and Linda get into an enthusiastic discussion about their favorite old movies while Emma remains less talkative than usual. Whenever Linda queries Killian on unfamiliar subjects, however, she steps in, deflecting the question or interjecting her own opinion and then answering his grateful smile with a nearly imperceptible blush or a small grin hidden behind her wine glass. 

Dancing commences after dinner, with music provided by a live orchestra and a pair of excellent singers whose handheld batons somehow amplify their voices above the din. Linda proves to be a fine dancer and pleasant enough company, but even as he circles the dance floor with her and encourages her bubbly chatter, Killian finds himself keeping tabs on Emma and Walsh. 

He has to admit, grudgingly, that whatever his perceived faults, Emma’s beau is undeniably attentive and courteous. Killian watches the two of them talk and move together in time to the music, and he sighs. Walsh may not be very interesting, but the man clearly has the potential to be a fine husband, and Killian should take comfort in that, he thinks – the knowledge that if and when she accepts the proposal, Emma will have what she deserves: a smile to greet her when she comes home, a father for her son, and a strong pair of arms to keep her warm at night. His stomach clenches, and he swallows. And as for himself? He’ll return with Smee to the Enchanted Forest and resume his quest, and the world will be as it should once again. 

“Folks, our night is drawing to a close,” one of the singers announces late in the evening. “On behalf of the Healthy Imaginations Book Campaign, we’d like to thank you for spending your evening with us and for your generous donations. As many of you know, it’s tradition for our next-to-last dance be an homage to the much-loved movie _Enchanted_ , which was filmed in this very ballroom. So gentlemen, please find a lady you did not accompany this evening, and join us for the King and Queen’s Waltz.”

Walsh and Emma approach, with Walsh stepping forward to offer Linda his hand. He grins. “Shall we?”

Linda's cheeks are rosy. “Of course, Ozzie.”

Emma steps back as they walk off, one hand gripping her elbow self-consciously. The glow of the dimmed chandeliers and the slightly blue overhead lamps plays over her like moonlight, and between the way it makes her blonde hair appear almost silvery white, the gleam of her flawless skin, and the luster of her dress, she shines ethereally like a fairy.

Killian licks his lips, unsure if he can bear to hold her again only to have to let her go. _Just one dance_ , a voice inside him murmurs. _One last time._ He’s going to miss her painfully either way; he might as well let himself have this. He extends his arm. “Grant me the honor, Swan?”

Emma’s lashes flutter, her eyes falling on his outstretched fingers, and she hesitates before gingerly setting her hand in his and allowing him to escort her out to the floor without a word. It isn’t until she slips into his arms that she finally dares to look up at him, and he knows immediately by her expression that she feels it too: Trepidation. Anticipation. Sadness. 

He can’t bear to see her sad. Killian gives her a soft, encouraging smile. “Trust this old pirate, Princess?”

Some of the weight lifts from his heart when the corners of her eyes hint at a crinkle and she gives a little nod.

_You’re in my arms_  
_And all the world is calm_  
_The music playing on for only two_  
_So close together_  
_And when I’m with you_  
_So close to feeling alive_

They begin to move and she follows faultlessly tonight, a natural extension of him as they fall in line with the other dancers and he rotates them around the floor. It feels like perfection, this point in time – soft music, magical lighting, and an angel in his arms staring up at him like she somehow knows him and yet cares for him all the same. He knows he doesn’t deserve any of it – doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve this dance – but he feels compelled to relish it nonetheless. Comes of being a pirate, he supposes. 

He spins her delicately in time to the music, her skirts swirling around her feet as she moves with the grace of a leaf whirling lazily to the earth. “Beautiful,” he breathes, and his chest aches with the truth of it. Emma returns to his embrace, her enormous eyes filled with wonder and uncertainty, and she silently searches him while the music swells into the chorus and his steps grow bolder. 

_So close to reaching_  
_That famous happy end_  
_Almost believing_  
_This one’s not pretend_  
_Now you’re beside me_  
_And look how far we’ve come_  
_So far we are, so close_

Killian’s heart stutters at the glint of wetness that suddenly appears in her eyes. “Swan?”

She blinks rapidly, embarrassment failing to hide her now down-trodden expression, and he ignores the song’s triumphant, sweeping interlude and keeps their steps small, pulling her close so that she can tuck her cheek in the crook of his neck.

“It’s alright, love” he whispers in her ear, hugging her to his chest. “It’s going to be alright. You’ll find your happy ending.”

His words make her shudder, and she clings to him like a frightened child, tipping her head forward until her nose rests on his shoulder. Killian closes his eyes against the sting of his own emotions, turning his face to bury his nose in her hair. He breathes her in and savors the softness of her golden tresses beneath his skin, suddenly determined to fill his senses with Emma Swan and bottle this memory as one to both give him life and kill him slowly.

They rock in each others’ arms until he feels her take a couple of steadying breaths, and she pulls back at last and gives him a watery smile.

_Oh how could I face the faceless days_  
_If I should lose you now_

Killian falls back into wider steps as showering tinkles from a harp and swelling bass notes lead into the chorus again. He spins her a few more times to distract her (and himself) before the music slows to the penultimate dramatic pause and they draw to a standstill, staring at one another like opposing statues.

_So close, so close_  
_And still so far_

They rotate around each other as the song ends, the gentle notes of a piano leading the orchestra into its last few chords before all of it falls away to leave the silvery tone of a solitary violin stretching into the night. Though her hand remains in his, it’s a feat of will to pull away from her for the closing bow. Killian straightens and presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles, trying to ignore how bereft he feels now that his moment with her is over. “Perfect, Swan,” he tells her quietly. “As I knew you would be.”

“You two have fun?” Walsh calls good-naturedly, walking up with Linda on his arm. He frowns when he sees Emma’s slightly red-rimmed eyes. “Honey? Is everything okay?”

Emma clears her throat and gives a little laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. My head is starting to hurt.” She affects a grimace. “And my feet may never forgive me.”

“Do you want to sit out the last dance?” Linda asks, looking sympathetic.

“I can go get our things,” Walsh offers.

Killian holds up his fake hand in order to stay him. “No, mate, I’m happy to do it if you don’t mind entertaining my partner for the last dance,” he says, motioning in Linda’s direction.

Walsh, a little puzzled but agreeable as ever, takes Linda’s hand and angles them toward the dance floor just as the band plays the opening notes of the final song. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.” Killian backs away in the direction of the coat check with a bob of his head and a forced chuckle. He turns away from them in time to hide his crestfallen smile. “I haven’t any dance left in me either.”

 

* * *

 

The evening alone passes quickly for Smee. Despite the Evil Queen’s possession of his heart, the difficult mission hanging over his head, and the lack of alcohol, company, or familiar surroundings, he enjoys himself immensely, nestled amongst the comfortable cushions of Emma’s sofa with a plate of the most delightfully sweet biscuits next to one hand and the extraordinary TV controller in the other. Truly a land of miracles, this Land Without Magic – confounding and overwhelming but filled with the most remarkable comforts. Take this object in front of him, for example – a box that shows moving pictures as a source of endless entertainment and information. He’s seen many things traveling the realms at the Captain’s elbow, but he could not have ever imagined such a thing. 

He experiments with the little buttons on the controller the way the boy, Henry, showed him. Taking each numbered channel in succession, he finds dramatic stories, funny stories, a series of channels devoted to people arguing over current events, and several programs about various animals in the wilderness. The shows are frequently punctuated by fascinating interruptions – brief advertisements for things this realm has to offer, like clothing and cleaning implements and food made just for dogs and horseless carriages and beer. His mouth waters at the tempting images of the latter, and he wonders if the Captain’s generous lady friend would be able to help him obtain any before their departure.

And then he comes upon a channel calling itself the _Food Network_ – program after program about this world’s edible delights and the chefs who prepare them. Smee puts the controller down, enthralled. For the rest of the evening, he watches persistently cheerful people demonstrate how to transform basic ingredients into delicious-looking creations that he suspects taste better than anything that’s yet to pass his lips, and he sighs at one point, lamenting this tantalizing world of food that he’s likely never to experience.

There are sounds at the front door a little after eleven, and Smee cranes around in his seat. The beautiful Lady Swan keys the door open and enters first, followed by her suitor, Walsh, and the Captain. The Lady appears tired, the Captain’s expression is similarly drawn.

Walsh greets him as he helps the Lady remove her cloak. “Hey there, William.” 

“Uh, hello.” Smee looks at the Captain. “Have a nice time, Sir?”

Captain Hook straightens and manages a brittle smile. “It went well enough.”

“Unfortunately, Emma’s got a headache,” Walsh explains. They watch as she leans on a hand against the wall and shucks her slippers off into the corner with an audible groan of relief. “Do you want something, honey? Aspirin maybe?”

“Perhaps a hot cocoa with cinnamon before bed would be good for what ails you, Swan,” the Captain suggests, switching his fake hand back out for his hook.

Her look up at him is tinted with pleasant surprise before she smiles sheepishly and chuffs. “I don’t suppose either would hurt,” she admits ruefully. “Does everyone want some?”

There are affirmative sounds all around, and Smee jumps to his feet eagerly and trails the party to the kitchen.

“Want some help?” Walsh loosens the bow at his throat.

She reaches for a tea kettle. “No, I’ve got this,” she says, running water into it. “But the aspirin’s upstairs in the medicine cabinet. Do you mind?”

“Sure.” He grins and heads away. 

She waits until he’s out of earshot before giving the Captain the side-eye. “So what are you going to do after we destroy the Sea Star tomorrow?” she asks quietly, hoisting her full kettle onto the stove and activating the flame.

Smee looks up sharply, panic striking him like a hammer as he realizes how quickly the clock is ticking on his mission to retrieve the Sea Star for the Queen. “T-tomorrow?” he sputters.

“Aye,” Captain Hook confirms grimly. “At two o’clock. Emma has a friend who has a…” He falters.

“A hydraulic press,” she supplies. “It’ll get the job done. What then?” Worry paints her face as she meets his eye. “This woman, this…”

“Evil Queen.”

“Right. Her.” The lines on Lady Swan’s brow deepen. “You said she already tried to kill you for stealing the stone. What’s she going to do when you show up and she finds out it’s gone?”

He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “We’re not going to show up.”

She squints. “What?”

“What?!” They both turn to see to see Smee aghast, his slightly rum-ruddy complexion turning pale. He shrinks under their dual stares, the Captain’s reproving frown in particular causing him to close his mouth and appear contrite. “Sorry, Sir. I – I just don’t understand what you mean.”

“Emma!” Walsh’s slightly muffled voice comes from the top of the stairs. “Where is the aspirin exactly?”

The Lady heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes. “Be there in a second!” she yells back. She focuses back on the Captain with an expectant look.

“We have a magic bean that will take us anywhere,” he points out in a low voice. “We don’t have to go back to the Jolly.”

“But Sir! The ship –”

“Will be fine without us,” he says firmly. “Roberts will take control in two more days and take her back out to sea. He’s from the Southern Isles. If we use the bean to transport us there, we can lie low far out of the Evil Queen’s reach and rejoin the Jolly the next time he brings her into port.” He turns back to the Lady, the side of his mouth twitching with a half-hearted grin. “Our world is a big place. It’ll be easy enough to steer clear of Misthaven for a while. Pirates don’t survive without learning well how to avoid our enemies.”

She considers this, taking a deep breath. “I guess it’s not the worst plan ever,” she acquiesces. “We can talk more about it in the morning.” She points to a knob on the stove. “Can you shut this off when the water boils? Just turn it counter-clockwise as far as it will go.” The side of her mouth quirks into a somber little smile when the Captain nods, and she trudges upstairs.

Sweat beads on Smee’s brow. Between the infinitesimally small chance of saving the Sea Star from destruction and now the revelation that the Captain does not intend to return them to the Jolly where the Queen awaits them, the success of his mission hangs perilously in the balance. He thinks of the sleeping potion burning a hole in his pocket and swallows. He’s not sure there’s any choice left in the matter. Perhaps falling into an eternal sleep, even with bad dreams, is a better fate than whatever the Evil Queen would otherwise have had in store for the Captain. After all, the whole of the Enchanted Forest knows of Snow White and how she survived such a curse. Perhaps it’s a mercy, he thinks mournfully, the best of the terrible options afforded them.

The Captain fidgets restlessly before moving to pull four mugs down from a cabinet, having clearly acclimated to the Lady’s home. The kettle whistles as he sets them on the counter, and he carefully turns the knob as instructed. The flame shrinks down to nothing, and satisfaction ghosts at his lips at this newfound ability to control fire with such precision. 

“This is quite the realm,” Smee comments, hoping his words don’t sound as jittery as he feels.

“Indeed.” Captain Hook’s face is solemn. “If circumstances were different, I wouldn’t have minded staying to explore it.” He shakes his head and turns to another cabinet, retrieving a large jar of brown powder and a small metal spice tin. “Sadly, that’s doesn’t appear to be in the cards for us, Mr. Smee.” 

His guilt feels like a lead noose as Smee glances at the cups and uses the counter to cover his movements. “No, Sir,” he says, carefully fingering the Queen’s glass vial out of the purse in his coat.

The Captain sighs and locates a spoon in a drawer. He combines equal amounts of powder and hot water in each mug and stirs, the most enticing aroma blooming from the rich brown liquid that forms. Setting the spoon aside, he lifts the nearest cup to his lips, gently blowing away the top layer of steam before risking a taste. A crease forms on his brow, and he eyes the drink with resignation. “It really is better with whipped cream and cinnamon,” he mutters, setting it down and turning away to pull open the door to the tall metal cabinet in the corner.

Smee doesn’t dare breathe as his hand darts out and dumps the contents of the vial into the Captain’s cup. His stomach churns at the sight of the liquid disappearing beneath the surface of the cocoa. _Gods forgive him._ Footsteps behind him herald the return of the Captain’s friends, and he straightens awkwardly just as the Lady Swan enters, Walsh in tow.

She sees the Captain studying the contents of the glowing box and looks amused. “What are you looking for?” 

“The whipped cream, love.” He bobs and weaves a bit, turning his attention to the items housed on the inside of the door.

Her eyes fall on the cups. “You made the cocoa?” she asked, sounding impressed.

The Captain glances at her over his shoulder smugly. “I’m a quick study,” he replies.

“Hmph. Let’s see.” She smiles, swipes his mug off the counter, and raises it to her lips.

“No!” Smee’s scream comes a split-second too late.

The Captain’s friend swallows and goes pale, gasping for air as her pretty features are stricken in a silent cry. The mug falls out of her hand and spills onto the countertop, her eyes roll back in her head, and the Captain only barely manages to catch her when she slumps to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So Close (Jon McLaughlin)_
> 
> _You’re in my arms_   
>  _And all the world is calm_   
>  _The music playing on for only two_   
>  _So close together_   
>  _And when I’m with you_   
>  _So close to feeling alive_
> 
> _A life goes by_   
>  _Romantic dreams must die_   
>  _So I bid my goodbye_   
>  _And never knew_   
>  _So close, was waiting_   
>  _Waiting here with you_   
>  _And now, forever, I know_   
>  _All that I wanted_   
>  _To hold you so close_
> 
> _So close to reaching_   
>  _That famous happy end_   
>  _Almost believing_   
>  _This one's not pretend_   
>  _And now you're beside me_   
>  _And look how far we've come_   
>  _So far we are, so close_
> 
> _Oh how could I face the faceless days_   
>  _If I should lose you now_
> 
> _We're so close to reaching_   
>  _That famous happy end_   
>  _Almost believing_   
>  _This one's not pretend_   
>  _Let's go on dreaming_   
>  _For we know we are_   
>  _So close, so close_   
>  _And still so far_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank all of you enough for being so patient in waiting for this final chapter! Between attending the OUAT convention in Vancouver, working on my newest fic for the CS Big Bang, and normal life, it's been a very busy four weeks. I promise to work on an epilogue for this next month, but I need to turn my attention back to the Big Bang fic STAT, LOL. Thank you all so much for your amazing support and encouragement. I hope you enjoy.

“Emma!” 

“Emma!”

Killian and Walsh’s dual cries fall on deaf ears as Killian cradles Emma’s limp form in his arms and awkwardly eases her to the ground. “Emma? Love?” Her normally rosy complexion goes slightly ashen before his eyes, and Killian’s heart beats frantically. “Emma?”

“No! No, no, no, no…” Smee cups his head in his hands.

Killian looks up sharply at his first mate while Walsh drops down to the floor beside them. He hastily transfers Emma into the other man’s arms. “Get her to the sofa.” 

Walsh hoists her away with a grunt, and Killian leaps to his feet and rounds on Smee, backing the shorter man against the counter. “What did you do?!” he hisses, mindful to keep his voice down. Steel flashes as the tip of his hook finds Smee’s jugular. 

“I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry…” Smee stutters. “I didn’t… didn’t mean…”

“Tell me what you’ve done!”

“S-sleeping curse,” Smee manages, his voice strained. “The Queen ordered me to give it to you… if you wouldn’t come back…”

Killian pales. “It was meant for me.”

Smee tries to nod.

Killian’s mind races, and he glances over his shoulder to the living room where Walsh is heaving Emma onto the sofa cushions. “How is she?”

“I—I can’t tell if she’s breathing!” Walsh calls back, panicked. He jostles her. “Emma? Emma!”

Killian whirls Smee around, pulling a long black scarf from his belt and proceeding to lash Smee’s wrists together behind his back with practiced speed and unnecessary roughness. “Sleeping curse,” he mutters, trying to think.

“Like Snow White’s, Sir,” Smee offers meekly, not bothering to resist restraint.

Killian pauses to stare at his crewman. “Snow White,” he repeats under his breath. “True Love’s Kiss.” He looks in Walsh’s direction. “You have to kiss her!” he calls.

Walsh lifts his head, a frown carved on his face. “What?”

Killian hauls Smee over to the living room and shoves him into a side chair. “Stay put,” he barks. He hastens to Walsh’s side. “Kiss her.”

The man continues to squint, uncomprehending. “Oh!” His eyes grow wide. “You mean, like, mouth-to-mouth?” Walsh shoots Emma a nervous look. “O-okay. I… I think I remember how.” He tips her head back, and Killian watches, confused, as he pinches Emma’s nose and seals his lips clumsily over hers, breathing into her mouth. He tries again and again for several long moments. Nothing happens.

“It’s not working!” Walsh says helplessly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Killian's stomach sinks. The strangeness of the kiss aside, it should have worked. _Unless…_ He blinks as the word crosses his mind. _What if her instincts about her relationship with Walsh were correct?_ He clenches his jaw. _But if not Walsh, then who—_

“You try.”

He looks up and gapes at Walsh. “Me?”

Walsh climbs to his feet and digs into his pocket for his phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1,” he declares, turning away. “Where’d she leave her purse?” He dials and disappears into the kitchen.

Killian hardly notices, his gaze still riveted on Emma. Surely he’s not… He doesn’t doubt how he feels about _her_ , but there’s no reason she should… They don’t belong together. He doesn’t deserve –

“Captain.”

He spins at the sound of Smee’s uncharacteristically insistent voice, and it’s only despair that tempers the rage he feels toward the man responsible for Emma’s predicament.

Smee swallows, his expression mournful. “I don’t know much about true love, but I’ve seen the way you look at each other, Sir. You should kiss her.”

Killian blinks, his features forming a rare expression of uncertainty before he turns back toward Emma. His eyes trace the lines of her lifeless face, and they begin to sting from the anger and devastation that well up within him at the idea that she might be lost forever. All because of him, no less. _Not again. Please, Gods, not again._ He leans forward, dipping his face closer and delicately sliding his fingers beneath her head. “Please, my love,” he trembles almost inaudibly. “Don’t leave me.” A solitary tear falls as he closes his eyes and presses his lips softly to hers.

He barely notices the magical wind that instantly ripples out from between them like a shock wave, but when he pulls back, Emma gasps, sucking in a breath so deep her back arches off the sofa as her eyes flutter open. The color returns to her cheeks while she searches the ceiling, dazed, and he’s never known a more welcome sight than when her attention falls on him and her face lights with recognition. 

“Killian?” She frowns as she spies the redness in his eyes and the track of his tear, and she reaches up gingerly, as though to touch the side of his face in silent question.

“What on Earth was that?” 

Her hand freezes, and they both glance up to see Walsh rush around the corner from the kitchen, phone still at his ear. He startles when he sees her. “Oh my God! Emma! You’re okay!” His brow wrinkles. “ _Are_ you okay? This is emergency dispatch on the line. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“What?” Emma struggles to sit up, taking Killian’s proffered arm so he can pull her upright. “No! No, I’m fine.”

“I think she’s okay now,” Walsh repeats into the phone. “Yeah, uh, we’re good. You don’t have to send anyone. I’m, uh, sorry to bother you.” He hangs up and starts forward. “Honey, what –”

The room suddenly explodes into an eerie green storm as a magic portal tears open the air between them. Walsh flies backward, crashing into the dining table and tumbling like a ragdoll to the floor while a dramatic whirlwind sets objects around Emma’s house flying like a tornado. Emma screams, and Killian throws himself over her, covering her with his body and curling his hook arm across his head. 

For a moment the air roars in their ears, and then the disturbance vanishes as quickly as it arose, loose papers from the dining table wafting to the ground around them in the aftermath.

“Hook.” A voice from his nightmares spits out his name. “I hope you like pain, because you’re in for a world of it.”

 

* * *

 

Emma clutches at Killian’s waistcoat and feels him tense at the unfamiliar voice that appears only a few feet away. The voice’s owner is female and pissed, and there’s only one person involved in their current situation who meets that description. Killian’s soft curse only serves as confirmation. He raises himself off of her, and Emma twists her torso to follow his sightline to an austere, dark-haired woman in a heavy black gown fit for a Broadway headliner or a wealthy drag queen who now stands between them and the dining room. Emma isn’t sure whether to focus on the woman’s handsome face or on the deadly-looking sword in her hand, but both make her murderous intention abundantly clear. Her jaw goes slack, and she scrambles to sit up. “Killian? Is that…?”

He swallows, planting his feet and rising to his full height as he takes a step toward their intruder. “Stay behind me, Emma.”

“Look at you, managing a True Love’s Kiss,” the Queen says, her voice dripping with contempt. “I must admit, I didn’t think you were capable of that sort of thing, Pirate.” 

Emma glances up at Killian’s profile with confused eyes. _True Love’s Kiss?_

His gaze remains fixed on the Queen, his lips twitching in a grin that is both cavalier and cold. “Feel free to keep underestimating me.”

She throws a smirk over his shoulder at Emma. “Does romance dictate that I kill the two of you together now?” 

Killian’s smile vanishes, his eyes flashing. “You’ll not lay a hand on her,” he growls with shocking vehemence.

“Oh, and you without your sword.” The Queen ignores him and tsks, a wicked grin curving her mouth. “This _will_ be fun.”

Killian turns his head, his face a grim mask. “Emma. Run.”

Emma rises slowly behind him, one hand settling on his shoulder, her eyes darting about the room as she considers their options. Her gaze alights briefly on Walsh, who lies sprawled in the far corner of the dining room. She exhales with relief at the sight of his chest rising and falling.

“Emma…” Killian warns again, turning his head to give her another anxious glance.

“You’re—you’re here for the opal?” she asks, trying to buy time.

“I’m here for what’s _mine_ ,” the Evil Queen replies acerbically, glaring at Killian, “and to punish the dirty thief who dared to take it from me.”

“H-how did you find him?” 

The Queen studies her, the corner of her mouth tweaking smugly. “Please. Child’s play. There are few places a magic mirror can’t see. Imagine my disappointment when I looked into mine and discovered this idiot,” she fixes Smee with a withering look, “had wasted my sleeping curse on you instead of using it on the Captain.” 

Killian’s first mate sits in the armchair next to the TV with his arms awkwardly behind his back, shrinking away from the foreboding woman and looking as though he wishes he were invisible.

“Really?” Emma pulls her eyes away from Smee and arcs an eyebrow. “You can actually do that whole, ‘Mirror, Mirror on the wall’ thing?”

The Queen leers. “If you had any idea what else I can do, you’d take the pirate’s advice and run.”

Killian shifts to shield Emma a little more, and she can see the contracted cords in his neck. She licks her lips, praying she isn’t making a mistake. “Not sure you want me to run, seeing as I’m the only one who can get your precious stone out of my safe,” she says through her teeth.

Killian tenses even more, and the Queen’s eyes narrow. “He gave it to you?” She curls her lip at Killian and laughs. “You really are a fool.”

“Better tell me what you’re going to give me for getting it out of there for you,” Emma continues. She gestures at the Queen’s sword. “That isn’t going to cut through two inches of solid steel.” Dropping her hand from Killian’s shoulder, she steps out from behind him. Their fingers brush, and he reaches for her, his touch restless and agitated. Emma does her best to maintain her poker face, even as she gives him a squeeze. _Trust me._

The tip of the Queen’s sword swings to point at her face. “How about I don’t cut off your head?” she snaps.

Emma swallows, her heart in her throat. “It’s a package deal, Lady. I give you the Sea Star back, _everyone_ in this room walks free.” She glowers, fighting to keep her voice even. “Seems like a good deal for the chance to pull off this curse you’ve been working on for so long.”

The two women stare each other down for a long moment.

The Queen seethes. “Fine,” she bites out at last, looking as though the words taste foul. “Keep your miserable little lives.”

Emma nods and gives Killian’s hand another squeeze before pulling away. All eyes are on her as she walks over to the hidden safe and pulls back the picture briskly. She moves behind the frame, disappearing from everyone’s view but Killian’s, and stops just long enough for a deep, steadying breath before she dials in the numbers in rapid-fire sequence, hands flying to yank the safe open while her pulse thrums in her ears. The cold touch of the metal to her skin doesn’t even register when she snatches out her gun, sliding off the holster and releasing the safety in one smooth motion. Emma swings the picture back into place and out of her way as she levels her weapon at the Queen. “We intend to.” 

The other woman pales, her expression turning livid as she realizes the ruse and eyes the gun.

“Put. The Sword. Down.”

There’s a small gasp of delight, and the Queen looks angrily in Smee’s direction. Her free hand twitches at her side, and he suddenly cries out, his face screwing up with distress. Extra lines appear on Emma’s forehead when he doubles over and she can see that his arms are inexplicably bound behind him. _What…?_

“You…” the Queen snarls at him, “worthless…” Her hand rises, pulling a glowing red object from a hidden pocket in her skirts. She squeezes, and Emma stares, appalled, when Smee screams again.

She takes aim at the Queen’s hand.

“No, Emma!” Killian barks. “Don’t shoot!”

“What—what is that?” she asks breathlessly.

“His heart.” Killian’s tone is stony, a measure of understanding rising to his eyes. “She took his heart.”

The Queen sneers. “He needed a little persuasion to come after you. For all the good it did. But maybe he can still be useful.” Her eyes return to Smee, glimmering threateningly. “Where’s the magic bean?”

Smee pants. “My… my pocket.”

She marches over. “Get up.”

He stumbles to his feet as though compelled, despite his obvious discomfort and exhaustion.

The Evil Queen wrinkles her nose in disgust as she pockets his heart and uses her now free hand to loose his bonds. “Give it to me.”

Smee reaches beneath his coat and produces what looks like a big pearlescent kidney bean. He holds it up mechanically, looking defeated. 

She swipes it out of his palm and tucks it into the revealing sweetheart neckline of her dress. “And the Sea Star?” she demands, pulling his heart back out. “Do you know where it is?”

His face contorts. “The Captain has it,” he grits out. His eyes are filled with guilt as he raises them to Killian. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

The Queen turns back to Killian and Emma, holding the heart up. “Since you seem so eager to trade,” she says bitingly, “you can have his life in exchange for the stone.”

“No!” Smee protests. “You can’t—” His plea is cut short by a strangled grunt when she squeezes his heart so hard her hand shakes, and he loses his breath, collapsing back into the chair with his hand clutched to his chest.

“No, stop!” Emma aims between the Queen’s eyes, feeling sick. 

The Queen pauses at her desperate cry, a victorious grin hinting on her lips.

Emma’s eyes flit back and forth between the Queen’s hands, the sword in one and Smee’s heart in the other. Then her gaze falls on her gun. “Killian,” she says quietly. “Throw her the stone.” She flashes him a look of entreaty.

Killian’s face is stern. “Emma… I can’t…”

“Please,” Emma says solemnly, hoping he can read her. “Just do it.” Her heart leaps at the subtle twitch in his brow, and though he studies her for a few long seconds, he finally reaches beneath his coat and pulls out the Sea Star.

“Here.” He hurls it with minimal warning. 

The opal somersaults through the air, and the Evil Queen hastily drops Smee’s heart it in order to catch it. The heart lands on the rug and rolls a bit to the side. Emma glances at it before her eyes lock back on to the jewel. She grits her teeth. _Come on, come on…_

The Queen presses the stone against her abdomen in order to adjust her hold on it, sighing with satisfaction. “Finally.” She holds it up to the light, bracing it top and bottom between her fingers.

Emma blinks at the clean shot. _Now._ She lines up her sights and pulls the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot is deafening. The .45 caliber bullet strikes the Sea Star dead-on, and the gem shatters in a spectacular shower of multicolored pieces that rain to the floor. The Queen shrieks and ducks down. She inadvertently knocks Smee’s heart closer to them, and Killian barrels forward to scoop it up while Emma keeps her gun at the ready and hazards a step closer. 

The Queen spies the opal shards littering the rug and lets out a guttural screech. “No!” she screams. “What you have done?!” She looks up at Emma, her expression turning savage.

“Broken an old man’s heart,” Emma replies flatly, thinking regretfully of Hal Johansen. “Now, unless you want me to put a bullet in you too, I suggest you do what I say.” She looks at Smee, concerned. “Are you okay?”

Smee nods gratefully, rubbing his chest. “I think so.”

“Good.” She offers him a tiny smile. “Get her sword and go check on Walsh. And then I need you to open that top drawer over there and bring me my handcuffs. Uh—” she corrects at the first hint of confusion on Smee’s brow, “metal rings. Like shackles.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Killian’s crewman pushes himself out of the chair to set about his tasks. The Evil Queen stares daggers as Smee nervously relieves her of the blade. He scurries clear of her and back toward the dining room, depositing the sword on the dining table with a clatter before kneeling down beside Walsh. 

Emma watches the Queen down the barrel of her gun and steps closer still, her lips pressed firmly together. “I’m going to need you to give back that magic bean,” she says, holding out her left hand expectantly.

The Queen fishes the bean out of her dress with two fingers. “You want it?” she grits. Her voice cracks with loathing. “Take it.” She flings it at the carpet at Emma’s feet.

“Emma, get back!” Killian shouts.

Emma’s eyes grow huge as the bean begins to glow and spin on its side, magical waves emanating from it as it sinks into the rug and a yawning circular chasm filled with swirling green light begins to swallow up her floor. 

The Queen jumps to her feet, and both women leap back from the rapidly expanding hole, the house shaking and moaning and violent winds stirring up around them yet again. A huge gravitational pull tugs them toward its ominous center, and a low, terrifying rumble as loud as a train fills their ears, highlighted by the sounds of splintering wood and crashing objects.

Emma’s disheveled chignon finishes pulling loose, her jeweled headband flying away, and her hair whips around her head, obscuring her vision intermittently. The ground seems to disintegrate beneath her bare feet, and she yelps, dropping her gun and flailing backward. She hits the floor sideways and claws at the carpet as the portal sucks her in, her skirts shredding on broken floorboards as her legs slide over the edge of the roiling funnel.

“Emma!” Killian’s hand darts out and catches her by the arm like an iron clamp. She looks up to see him lying on his belly perpendicular to her, his expression strained as he anchors them to the floor next to the armchair with his hook. He grunts. “Hold on!” 

Face twisting with exertion, he slowly pulls her toward him, and she gasps when she regains enough purchase to be able to do some version of an army crawl back toward safe ground. Despite the hindrance of her gown, between the two of them, they manage to maneuver her close to his side. 

“Here!” He tugs her hands up toward one leg of the armchair, and she grabs hold, feeling a measure of relief when he repositions his arm securely around her waist.

“If I can’t get my revenge, neither will you!” They look up to see the Evil Queen holding on to the end of the dining table, a tear-stained scowl on her face. “The Dark One will live forever, and you'll spend the rest of your days trapped in this non-magical wasteland, Pirate!” she yells. “Don’t try to follow me back, or I’ll—”

Something hits her over the back of the head, and her threat goes unfinished. She crumples, unconscious, and plummets head-first into the abyss. Smee comes into view as she falls, gripping the side of the dining table with one hand and wielding her sword in the other, having downed her with the pommel.

Killian lets out a laugh. “Good man, Smee!” he shouts.

“We should go, Captain!” Smee hollers back. “It won’t stay open much longer!”

Killian sobers, and he looks to Emma, flashes of lightning from the portal throwing shadows across his handsome face. She can see a storm in his eyes to rival the one around them as he searches her. “I…” He swallows. “I don’t want to go.”

Emma blinks at him through the wind, her heart rising in her throat, and God, she wants to cry because she wants more time – she _needs_ more time – but there isn’t any. “I don’t want you to leave,” she shudders, just loud enough for him to hear.

She can see it – the moment he makes up his mind. His face relaxes, and his eyes quiet as though he’s found some long-sought clarity. He pulls her tighter to him and cranes his head. “I’m staying!” he yells across the void at Smee. “Go without me!”

To his crewman’s credit, Smee doesn’t seem surprised. “First mate stays with the Captain!” he bellows cheerfully.

And then it all stops. The lights in the portal rapidly fade to black, the winds die down almost instantaneously, and every airborne item is again slave to gravity as it falls back to the Earth. The world feels deathly still by comparison, and the sound of her own heavy breathing reaches her ears once more. She glances at Killian, torn between joy and disbelief. He stayed. He stayed for _her_. And by the look he gives her, it’s as monumental a decision for him as she thinks it is.

Killian reaches forward and tentatively brushes her hair off her forehead, trailing his fingertips down the side of her face. “Alright, love?”

There are so many questions, so many unknowns, so many headaches she’s going to have to deal with in the aftermath of tonight’s events, but in this moment, the answer is on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah,” she says with a weak smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the night is busy as Killian returns Smee’s heart and the two of them help Emma address the damage caused by the Evil Queen. Walsh begins to stir minutes after the portal closes. It’s a little trick bundling him out the back and around the house to avoid the jagged five-foot hole left in Emma’s floor and another trick working him into the Bug, but between the three of them, they manage it before he’s conscious enough to know what’s happening. 

He remembers blessedly little of the incident, only vaguely recalling that Emma had passed out and recovered “spontaneously,” and when they tell him he fell and hit his head on the dining table, he laughs deliriously and slaps Smee, who’s wedged in the back seat with him, on the shoulder. “I always knew furniture would be the death of me one day, Bill. Can I call you Bill?”

Pulling up to a red light and now back in a shirt, trousers, and her leather jacket, Emma glances over her shoulder before sharing a look with Killian that is both amused and slightly worried.

The trip to the hospital is strange and fascinating. Moving Walsh becomes much less cumbersome once they load him into a wheeled chair, and thankfully, the medical staff give their invalid priority over the drunken Halloween revelers and the over-anxious worrywarts who think 1 A.M. is the appropriate time to seek attention for a runny nose.

Walsh is shuttled into a small room with a glass wall, loaded onto a rolling bed, and shortly thereafter stolen away for a test that Emma explains will allow the doctor to see images of his brain. Killian and Smee both balk at this, but she hastily assures them that it’s fine. Not long after Walsh is returned to them – intact, as promised – the doctor decides to keep him in the hospital for observation and more images the following day. 

Killian and Smee hover awkwardly outside the open door while Emma helps Walsh change into hospital clothes behind the thin privacy of a cheerfully-patterned curtain.

“’S-nice of Killian and Bill to be here with us,” they hear Walsh slur. “’S-too bad Killian thinks he’s a pirate, ‘cuz otherwise he seems like a good guy.”

“Um…” Emma’s voice is sheepish. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

There’s a pause and the continued rustle of fabric. 

“I know this isn’t the best time,” Walsh starts again, “But, d’you ever wonder whether… whether we should be with other people?”

Killian turns his head toward the curtain as there’s another pregnant pause.

“Uh, w-why do you ask?” Emma sounds taken off-guard.

“I dunno,” Walsh drawls. “’S-just… Tonight, when we traded partners… I dunno. I just… It was nice.” He sounds guilty.

Killian holds his breath as he listens for the man behind the curtain to say more.

“Linda’s really great,” Emma volunteers gently.

“Yeah. She’s kinda ‘mazing.”

“Yeah.” The word is a bittersweet sigh on Emma’s lips. “Maybe… Maybe we _aren’t_ exactly right for each other,” she says after a beat. “Maybe we’re not… you know… True Love. Or whatever.”

Walsh laughs. “’S-like, the least Emma Swan thing you’ve ever said.”

She chuckles. “People change, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his smile still audible. “Guess we do.” There’s a moment of silence. “Are we breaking up?”

She chuffs quietly. “I guess we are.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t—don’t be sorry,” she says kindly. “Just go out and find the person who’s right for you.”

He laughs again. “’Kay. You too. Promise?”

Killian smiles to himself as Emma hums.

“I promise.”

They take their leave after Walsh is settled upstairs in a hospital room, with Emma assuring him that she’ll call to check on him later. He gives them a slightly addled grin and a thumbs-up as they walk out the door.

Upon their return to the house, Killian changes out of Mr. Castro’s finery, and they set to work carting some thick boards from a shed in the backyard into the house, laying them over the hole in the floor to make it passable. It takes another two hours for them to set the place back into some semblance of order, putting undamaged objects back in their place, throwing away items that are broken beyond repair, and sweeping up the dust and debris. 

The sky is lightening from inky black to shades of indigo and deep blue when they head down to the apartment to finish cleaning. Emma stretches a little while later and announces a desperate need for coffee.

“Go, Swan,” Killian tells her with a knowing smile, wiping down the kitchenette surfaces with a rag. “Smee and I can finish here.”

She flashes him a weary little smile as she trudges up the stairs.

They continue to work in silence for several minutes before Smee calls out, “Captain? What’s this?”

Killian looks up in the direction of the bathroom and sighs, abandoning the rag and wiping his hand on his shirt. “What’s what?” He comes around the privacy screen to see Smee standing in the doorway of the bathroom, broom in hand. 

Smee points at something next to the sink. “There on the counter, Sir. Is that…?”

Killian moves past him and retrieves the object in question. “The magic compass,” he says. “The thing that was supposed to help me find the Dark One’s dagger.” He opens it and shows his crewman the fractured glass. “It was damaged when I came out of the portal. Bloody useless now.”

Smee makes a regretful noise. “Shame.”

Killian tucks it in his pocket. “Not that it would do us any good here anyway.”

Smee studies him. “What will you do now that you can’t kill the Dark One?” he asks pensively.

A heavy sigh expels from Killian’s chest. “I don’t know. Perhaps this world will provide us with a new, happier adventure,” he says. He huffs wryly and smiles. “Though we might find ourselves doing something a bit more honest.”

Smee stifles a yawn. “I guess if it keeps our purses and our bellies full..." he replies amiably. He bends down to sweep the last of the mess into a dust pan and empties it in a bin. “If it’s alright with you, Sir, I could use a few winks on that sofa.”

Killian gives him a nod, looking thoughtful, and watches his first mate wander away. The creak of the floorboards above his head draws his attention, and his mouth curves upward. _A new adventure…_

He pads upstairs to find the kitchen filled with the aroma of fresh coffee and a note in Emma’s scrawl.

_Out in front. Help yourself._

His eyes narrow curiously, but he pours himself a cup, dashes in some sugar, and takes his coffee with him as he trots back down the stairs to retrieve his coat. Smee is already passed out on the sofa, his knit cap pulled down over his eyes and his hands folded on his chest, and Killian takes care to close the door stealthily behind him when he slips through the apartment’s front door in search of Emma. 

He finds her seated above him on the front steps, huddled in her jacket and scarf, her hair still a tumble of leftover curls down her back as she nurses her coffee and her breath mists over the lip of her mug. It’s just after seven on a Sunday, and in the pale light of the blue-green dawn, the street is relatively silent, save for the call of birds and the distant dissonance of traffic. She gives him a soft smile, and he accepts her invitation, climbing the stairs and settling himself next to her.

“Where’s Smee?” she asks quietly, as though not wanting to disturb the peace.

He smirks and sips. “Snoring on the sofa.”

Emma hums, one of her dimples peeking. “Well, last night was kind of eventful,” she says dryly.

He chuckles. “Indeed.”

Emma looks down, rubbing her thumbs back and forth over the sides of her cup. “So… if you’re here,” she starts hesitantly, “what happens to your hunt for the Dark One?”

Killian looks past her, his eyes distant as they survey the street, and he offers a rueful sigh. “Perhaps it was never meant to be.” His mug clinks as he sets it down on the brick step, reaching to dig the compass out of his pocket. “See this?”

Her brow furrows, and she, too, puts her coffee aside. “What is it?” She plucks it out of his outstretched hand and turns it over, examining it curiously.

“The magic compass I got from the Evil Queen. It was supposed to help me find the Dark One’s dagger by pointing me to the thing I needed most.” He scratches behind his ear. “But it was broken when I came through the portal. Perhaps it’s a sign.”

Emma draws her fingers over the worn, misshapen brass and lifts the lid. She makes a thoughtful sound as she traces the crack in the glass with her fingernail and then frowns, moving the compass from side to side. “Are you sure it’s broken?” She rotates it 180 degrees in her palm. “It seems to be pretty set on pointing in one direction.”

“What?” Killian pulls her hand closer to peer down at it, forehead wrinkling when he notes the needle pointing at him. “Strange.” He takes the compass back and freezes when the needle suddenly wobbles around to point at Emma. He turns his hand this way and that, and his breath catches in his throat when the needle persists in its chosen direction no matter which way he orients the dial. 

_But…_

_Bloody hell._

“What is it?” Emma frowns, also noting the compass’ strange behavior.

“The thing I need most,” he murmurs soberly. He looks up at her in awe. “I think… I think when I fell into the portal without a destination in mind, this brought me here.” He taps the glass hard, and the arrow falters briefly before pointing back at Emma. “To you.”

Emma blinks up at him with huge, uncertain eyes. Her gaze falls to the compass, and she takes it back, watching the arrow swing toward him yet again.

“I thought it was completely ruined,” Killian adds, his voice growing thick. “But perhaps it’s only been reduced to working at close range.”

She stares at the little needle, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “So when the Queen said you managed a True Love’s Kiss…” she raises her anxious eyes back to his face, “she meant… us?”

Killian takes in the pink in her cheeks and the nervous wrinkle between her eyes, and he does his best to soften the enormous grin that pulls at his mouth. “Aye, she meant us,” he rumbles. “Only True Love’s Kiss can break a sleeping curse like the one you were under.”

She closes the compass with a tiny click and begins to turn it over and over in her hands absently, the upward tilt of her eyebrows full of question. “So… we’re...?”

He scratches the back of his head with his brace, his neck warming. “I suppose we are.” He reaches out and squeezes her hand, causing her to still. “Look, I know this is all a lot to take in. But I also know how I feel about you, Emma Swan, and if you need time to think about it, I’ll give you as long as it takes.”

Emma scans his face, her expression unreadable, and he watches her intently, holding his breath until her fingers slowly curl around his. 

“It’s not fair,” she mutters at last, dropping her gaze to the compass as she slips it into her jacket pocket with her free hand.

His brow tics with concern.

She looks back up at him, eyes sparkling. “I don’t get to remember our first kiss.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and Killian inches closer, pulling their entwined hands toward him until they rest against his heart. “Would a second first kiss help make it up to you?” he mutters as his nose delicately brushes hers, the fog from their combined breath curling upward toward the sunrise.

“Hmph.” She tilts her head, her eyes fluttering closed just before she seals her mouth over his. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

They come together there on the front stoop in the chill of the burgeoning dawn, lips moving tenderly and then hungrily in a prolonged moment of elated sighs and warm, affectionate caresses. And as he wordlessly pledges his heart and soul to Emma Swan, Killian feels, for the first time in ages, the hope and excitement and gratitude that come with being afforded a brand new beginning.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, strangers! Remember me? You all don't know how sorry I am that it took me such an embarrassingly long time to turn out the last bit of this story. The guilt of not having finished it has been hanging over my head for over a year, but between real-life stressors and the near-complete absence of a muse, well, words have been really hard. Still, I promised myself I would finish this sometime this spring, and it felt right to release it around the time of the series finale as a way of paying tribute to the show and the fandom that helped shape the last few years of my life. You guys have been amazing. Your words of appreciation and encouragement mean more to me than you'll ever know, and I'll treasure them always. Thanks to those of you who have stuck with me for all your love and support.

The stainless steel door slides open with a cheerful ding to reveal another cookie cutter hotel hallway, and Emma smiles sweetly at the middle-aged couple that steps off the elevator – this pause on the 14th floor marking the fifth stop it's made on its way toward the roof. She heaves a sigh as the door closes once again and she finds herself alone. _Finally._ The elevator hums to life, and she shifts her weight, now free to utter a dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat in response to the pressure of the floor on the balls of her feet.

“What is it, darling?” Killian’s voice is soft.

She sighs, examining her reflection in the mirrored walls, her gaze dropping regretfully to her heels. “These shoes were a mistake,” she grumbles, wincing at the waves of pain that the sexy, four-inch stilettos are also starting to impart on her toes.

“I thought you said they’d be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I may have misjudged.” She tips her head slightly and reaches beneath her hair to adjust her earpiece. 

Killian’s voice comes back to her a little clearer this time. “It’s not too late to back out, you know.”

She rolls her eyes, the side of her mouth quirking. “I’ll be fine,” she answers indulgently, checking the elevator’s progress before she goes back to studying her appearance. “I know you’re not a fan of the honey trap, but this whole thing’ll be over in under an hour, and then we can drop this guy at the precinct and go home and catch up on _Game of Thrones_ , okay?” She smoothes a wrinkle from her very tight, very short red dress and double-checks her make-up.

“He better not touch you.”

She relishes the little thrill his possessive growl sends down her spine. “He won’t.”

“A man like him? And you in that dress?” Her pirate snorts.

“I thought you liked this dress,” she teases.

“Aye.” The sudden drop in the pitch of his voice gives her actual goosebumps. “I’m fairly certain I made it clear how much the last time you wore it.”

Emma’s cheeks glow a shade of red that rivals the fabric, and she bites her lip at the pleasant pull she feels in her belly. “You may need to jog my memory,” she says, sounding a little breathless.

He rumbles agreeably. “Just get this guy so we can go home, alright?”

“Deal." 

The elevator dings, and she straightens and tosses her head a little as the door slides open. Eyes swivel in her direction as she steps out into the hotel’s rooftop bar, clicking her heels a bit louder than strictly necessary on the dark tile floor. The intimate little space is just starting to fill up for happy hour, and a quick visual sweep reveals about a dozen other patrons as Emma wanders in and sets her clutch down on the glowing surface of the bar. Her fingers reach for a cocktail menu while she admires the amazing view this place has of the Empire State Building towering a few blocks away, its myriad lights brilliant against the royal blue evening sky. 

There’s a small surge of satisfaction when the man she’s looking for appears at her side in the span of a few moments. The dirty blonde curls and slightly creepy smile are straight out of the photo that’s been on her kitchen table for the last couple days, and despite the fact that her paycheck depends on this encounter, the light in his eyes and the flush of his skin tells her that he’s still a lot more pleased to meet her than she is him.

He doesn’t even try to disguise the way he looks her up and down as he approaches, grinning like a fool who’s just won the lottery. “Emma?”

Emma schools her features into something akin to pleasant surprise and forces her attention away from the menu. “Oh! Mick! Hi!” She beams. “You’re here!”

His artificially white teeth gleam as he flashes them at her. “Wow. Your profile picture doesn’t do you justice at all.”

She affects a demure chuckle. “Thanks. Sorry I’m a little late. Traffic was a beast, and I can’t exactly run in these shoes.”

Her skip’s eyes travel appreciatively down her exposed legs on cue. “I’d say they were worth it.” He gestures at her long black coat. “Can I take that for you?”

She waves him off. “No, I’ll keep it for now. I’m actually a little cold. I love this dress, but it’s not the warmest thing in my closet.”

Killian snorts in her ear yet again.

Mick laughs knowingly and sidles a little too close for comfort. “Sounds like you could use some warming up. What can I buy you?”

Emma does her best to ignore the way his proximity makes her skin crawl as she turns her eyes back to the menu. “I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. What do you like?”

“I’m partial to Long Island Iced Tea, myself.”

“Yeah.” She chuckles dryly and shakes her head. “Pretty sure that’s a bad idea. The last time I had Long Island Iced Tea, I got into a brawl at a biker bar and was almost arrested for drunk and disorderly.” 

“Well in that case, I’d say it’s the best idea ever,” he laughs. “What was a nice girl like you doing in a biker bar?”

"Just meeting someone." Her shoulders bob in a casual shrug. “Another first date.”

“And how’d it go?”

Emma grins. “Well, he _did_ get arrested, so not so well for him.”

“Ah.” Mick catches the bartender’s eye and signals her over. “Well, let’s hope this date goes a little better then.”

“Well, to be fair, other than the part where he tried to beat me up and I had to take him down, the evening went pretty much the way I wanted it to,” she says airily. 

She watches with amusement as his smile dims and confusion creeps across his face. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know how it goes,” she continues, setting the drink menu aside. “Guy gets arrested. Guy makes bail. Guy fails to show for court. Bail bondsperson has to track guy down.” She arches a brow in his direction. “Starting to sound familiar?”

Mick’s eyes bug out, and Emma can see him choke on a breath as he steps back and his pasty complexion somehow manages to grow even paler. “You’re…”

“Here to make sure you stand trial for distributing child porn?” The side of her mouth curls humorlessly. “Yup. That’s me.”

His face darkens. “Bail bonds.”

Emma shrugs. “Hey, on the bright side, I’m definitely going to insist on leaving with you.” She reaches for her clutch. “Can we walk down to my car quietly, or are you gonna embarrass yourself and make a scene?”

The soft ding of an elevator causes Mick to dart a glance over her shoulder. “I think you’re the one about to be embarrassed,” he sneers, rotating to snatch the tumbler from the customer behind him and dashing its contents in her direction. 

The frigid mixture of gin, tonic, and ice strikes her in the face, and Emma recoils, the shock of it barely allowing her to register what happens when he presses past her, shoving at her shoulder and knocking her feet out from under her with a backward sweep of his leg. She crashes to the floor with a yelp that triggers cries of surprise and dismay from all corners of the bar, and Mick makes a break for it, pushing his way past the pair of startled young women who have just stepped off the open elevator behind them. He leaps inside and whirls to hit the buttons, shooting her one last glare through the closing door, and only when his face disappears from view does she realize that Killian is barking in her ear.

“Emma? Emma! What’s going on?”

Emma curses, struggling to get to her feet in heels that are most definitely too high and a skirt that now threatens indecency with every move she makes. She accepts a hand and a dry towel from the female bartender with a gasped word of thanks. “He’s in the elevator,” she grunts, pressing one hand to her earpiece while she hastily mops her face, neck, and chest.

“The one on the right or the left?”

“My left.” She huffs with frustration at the lack of any sort of numeric indicator on the elevators on this floor. “Ugh. I can’t tell where he’s going.”

“It’s alright, love. I’ve got it. He’s heading straight for me,” he reassures her gruffly. “Did he touch you?”

She tosses the towel back onto the bar with a sigh. “What?”

“Did he touch you?” Killian repeats, his voice more insistent.

Emma rolls her shoulder and groans. “Just got my legs out from under me.” She hears him hum as she grabs her clutch to offer the bartender another thanks and a twenty for her trouble. “What?”

“Nothing, Swan,” he answers, a grim smile in his voice while the bartender waves off the money. “Just deciding how hard to hit him.”

She grins in spite of herself and hustles toward the elevators, stuffing the bill back into her clutch. Her finger jabs the call button. “You know the law,” she reminds him affectionately.

“Aye.” He chuckles. “And I know a few things about bending the rules.”

A smirk pulls at her lips. “Pirate.”

 

* * *

 

He dislikes this part – the waiting. Not as much has he dislikes the idea of Emma using herself as bait to lure in their latest skip, but having to deal with both things at the same time makes Killian’s knee bounce impatiently as he waits in the lobby of the hotel, nestled in one of four very purple, very loud wingback chairs that are arranged around an equally loud yellow ottoman. He grips his phone, thumb sweeping back and forth over the cool glass screen absently as he tries very hard not to imagine the way their latest quarry, Mick Jamison, is about to ogle the woman he loves. Emma’s certain to give the villain an eyeful – miles of silken skin and athletic curves poured into a dress with a neckline that’s too low and a hem that’s too high and those sinful new shoes that made Killian groan inwardly with delight when she first pulled them from the box. He still has no bloody clue how she walks around in those things without snapping her feet off at the ankle, but the effect they have on her legs and her arse and the sway of her hips… 

He bites his lip and tries to think of something else before too much of his blood rushes south. A quick check for new e-mail yields a message from a colleague at Sword Class NYC asking whether Killian would be willing to open a few more spots in the wildly popular saber/cutlass course he’s been teaching twice a week, but there’s little else beyond that to distract him, not even the usual, cursed “spam.”

His sigh of relief is nearly audible when his phone suddenly vibrates in his hand. It’s a text from Henry. Killian’s thumb swipes across the screen.

_Operation PAROI is go._

He hums, dimples making the briefest appearance, and sets about typing his response, his thumb carefully tapping each letter with only mild awkwardness compared to the way it was ten months ago when Henry and Emma first taught him how.

_You got them?_

_Yeah. Smee brought them over. They’re in the cabinet. IDK what he’s cooking, but you guys better leave me some cuz it smells awesome._

_Good._

_What’s your ETA?_

Killian’s brow furrows.  
_What?_

_When will you be home?_

He makes a mental note to ask about “ETA” later. Some days it feels like this whole world speaks in bloody letters.  
_Your mum is on her way to meet the target. An hour at least._

_What if he doesn’t show and you guys come back too early?_

_He’ll show._

_How do you know?_

Killian huffs and hesitates a moment before keying in his reply.  
_I saw his messages to your mum. Let’s just say he’s keen to meet her._

_Keen?_

_Eager._

_Oh. Is this the part where I get grossed out?_

The corner of his mouth twitches.  
_Completely._

 _EWWWWW._

He stifles a laugh.

_Mom won’t let him get away with anything though, right?_

_No. And neither will I._

_Good._

A fond grin blooms on Killian’s face, and he begins to key in his next message. His thumb pauses for a second at the irritated sound Emma suddenly makes in his earpiece. “What is it, darling?” he asks, glancing around to make sure no one is watching him talk to himself and then hitting “send.”  
_When do you go to Avery’s?_

“These shoes were a mistake.”

Killian frowns. “I thought you said they’d be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I may have misjudged.” 

“It’s not too late to back out, you know,” he reminds her. He experiences a prick of apprehension at the prospect of leaving early and mucking up the plot happening at home, but it fades as quickly as it came when he all but hears her rolling her eyes at him. 

“I’ll be fine.” Emma's voice warms with affection. “I know you’re not a fan of the honey trap, but the whole thing’ll be over in a few minutes, and then we can drop this guy at the precinct and go home and catch up on _Game of Thrones_ , okay?” 

His phone buzzes again.  
_Avery’s mom’s running late. Smee’s gonna take me over on his way back to the restaurant._

“He better not touch you,” he grumbles, even as he replies to Henry.  
_Good man. I’ll text when we’re on our way._

She hums. “He won’t.”

“A man like him? And you in that dress?” Killian snorts.

“I thought you liked this dress.” 

He can envision the sly smile on her lips, and he shivers at the thought. “Aye.” He glances around again for onlookers and lowers his voice. “I’m fairly certain I made it clear how much the last time you wore it.”

“You may need to jog my memory.” 

He groans inwardly, and his blood threatens to run south yet again. Bloody hell, he’s a lucky sod. “Just get this guy so we can go home, alright?”

“Deal.”

The next few minutes listening to Emma make contact with Jamison have Killian clenching his fist and trying not to openly scowl, but she keeps her flirtation blissfully brief. He almost dares to relax a little, but then things go sideways and the sound of her yelp makes him sit bolt upright. “Emma?” The clerk at the lobby desk shoots him an odd look, and Killian hurriedly raises his phone to his ear to keep from looking like a madman as he springs to his feet. “Emma! What’s going on?”

He’s relieved to hear she isn’t hurt, but that relief quickly gives way to determination when she fills him in. Adrenaline pulses through his chest as he spins and stalks toward the elevators, eyeing the slow, steady sweep of the dial on the circular floor indicator above the door on the left with a predatory glare. A smooth, black pillar with a silver upholstered bench wrapped cleverly around the base stands nearby, and he ducks behind it, poking his head out to keep watching the numbers count down. _9…8…7…_ It’s times like these he finds he misses his sword the most, and he briefly laments how much more effective (and entertaining) it would be to catch this bastard at the tip of his blade. Killian shrugs off the idea and wets his lips in anticipation. _4…3…2…_ No matter, he thinks, checking his brace. There are other ways to get his satisfaction.

The elevator dings, and the blonde man from Emma’s photo hurries out, looking disgruntled and nervous as he makes for the front door. In one smooth movement, Killian emerges from behind the pillar and swings, his jaw clenched and his outstretched arm slightly bent as it catches Jamison hard across the upper chest and brings him to a comically abrupt stop. The clash of momentum causes the villian to topple backward with a delightful choking noise and Killian to drop to his knees expelling a gratified grunt. Any pain he feels when he hits the floor goes largely unnoticed as he scrambles to his feet and gets in Jamison’s face. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, mate?” he asks through gritted teeth, twisting his hand into the front of the man’s shirt. He hauls him to a sit none too gently and brandishes his hook. “It’s bad form to run out on a lady.” 

Jamison utters a few choice words between wheezes, going a little cross-eyed as he gapes at the sharpened steel point hovering inches from his nose. “Who the hell are _you_?” he demands.

Killian allows his expression to grow thunderous, and he thrusts the curve of his hook against Jamison’s throat to extract another gurgle from him. “Where I come from, most people would say I’m their worst nightmare,” he replies darkly. “Here I can still come pretty close. Don't tempt me to demonstrate.” He reaches for his cuffs and slaps one around the man's wrist, his hook pressing deeper into the cleft above Jamison’s Adam’s apple and his blue eyes flashing hard and cold. “You’re going to apologize to my partner when she gets down here, is that clear?"

The miserable little skip nods weakly, cursing again when Killian circles around and yanks his arms behind his back to finish cuffing him. Killian has him situated on the bench at the base of the pillar by the time the elevator on the right dings and Emma strides out. 

Some of her allure is lost in her damp hair and the wet spot on the front of her dress, but the fire in her eyes more than makes up for it. They land on a defeated-looking Jamison before she flashes Killian a grateful grin, a little more swivel in her hips as she covers the last few steps between them. “My hero.”

Killian smiles winningly and reaches out to cup her cheek. “Are you alright, love?”

“Nothing bruised but my tailbone and my ego.” She chuckles and lets him pull her in for a quick kiss. “And the dress will wash out,” she adds with a knowing gleam in her eye. He laughs quietly, and she tips her chin toward Jamison. “Left him in one piece, I see.”

“Aye, against my better judgment.” Killian arches an eyebrow expectantly at their perp. “You have something to say to her, mate?”

Jamison glowers at him before shooting a petulant glance at Emma. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Good enough, I suppose.” Killian nods, allowing himself to look smug as he grabs the wretch by the arm and drags him to his feet. He savors the pleased smile that curls at Emma’s lips and throws her a wink while he gives Jamison a little push toward the front door. “Now let’s get out of here. The lady and I have better things to do.”

 

* * *

 

The worst of the rush hour traffic has thankfully abated by the time they make their way home from Manhattan, having left their skip in the capable hands of the booking officer at the Thirteenth. Emma lets out a satisfied sigh as she pulls the Bug into the parking spot in front of the house, switching off the ignition and slumping back in her seat in slightly exaggerated fashion.

Killian eyes her from the passenger seat with a smile. “Tired, Swan?”

“Mmph.” She fingers a wet-and-dried lock of hair out of her face. “I’m okay. Starving more than anything. What do you want to do for dinner?” She swivels her head to blink languidly at him.

He smiles and tips his head, as if considering. “Why don’t you let me handle dinner tonight?”

“Really?” She straightens a bit, pleasant confusion appearing on her brow. 

“Really.” He leans forward and gives her a kiss that’s short and sweet and leaves her craving more. Her kid’s almost a teenager but she’s still thinking about making out in cars with boys, she muses as she purrs and tugs him into a more heated embrace. His satisfied growl sends a shiver rippling across her skin. Well, one car. And one two hundred year-old boy who looks damn good in black leather.

They pull apart at last, his breath warm across her lips and his forehead still pressed to hers as she gives a gratified sigh and enjoys the pleasant flip of her stomach. “So are you calling for pizza or Chinese?” she manages.

Killian chuckles and plants a quick kiss on her nose before shaking his head. “Neither. Come on.” He releases his car door and turns to set a foot on the pavement.

A hesitant smile forms on Emma’s mouth as she follows suit. “Okay…” 

He waits for her on the curb, his arm wrapping around her shoulders as he guides her toward the front steps. “Give a man a little credit, Swan. I know how to use the microwave too,” he reminds her cheerfully.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Her grin is teasing, even as she silently acknowledges that he probably _could_ find a way to make frozen food seem romantic.

They climb the steps together, and she pauses on the stoop to pull him to her again, yanking on the lapels of his black leather motorcycle jacket and sealing her lips hungrily over his. The sound he makes in the back of his throat sends a shower of sparks raining down between her shoulder blades and makes her forget the screaming protest of her aching feet, and between the dress and the heels and the making out with her hot fairytale boyfriend in front of the whole street, she wonders in some recess of her mind whether the neighbors will start to get the wrong idea about her.

Killian chuckles and nuzzles her cheek, his scruff scraping pleasantly over her skin. “I love you.”

 _Let them think whatever they want._ Her smile feels impossibly wide. “I love _you_.” 

“Almost a year later and still kissing me on the front step, I see.” His fingertips trace the curve of her jaw.

She laughs softly, eyes dancing. “I'm pretty sure you're the one that started it,” she says, glancing down to locate her house key.

“Aye. One of several excellent decisions I made that day.”

Warmth rises in her cheeks, and she chews on the corner of her lip, darting him a warm glance as she turns back the bolt and lets them in. “Yeah.” 

She stops dead in the doorway with one foot still on the stoop when she gets her first whiff of the delicious smells that hang heavy in the air. “What…?” Her mouth falls open, and she shoots a quizzical look over her shoulder only to be met with Killian’s reassuring nod.

“I told you I’d take care of dinner, Swan.” His trademark smirk is slightly muted, but his eyes gleam nonetheless as he nudges her inside and relieves her of her coat.

Emma sniffs and cranes her head toward the kitchen while he leaves their things on the hooks by the stairs. The house is dark, save for the light of the living room lamp they always leave on at night, but she searches the shadows nonetheless. “Is Smee here?”

“He was, but he’s gone back to the restaurant.” Killian meets her incredulous expression with a casual shrug, though the dimple in his cheek reveals his self-satisfaction. “And Henry’s at Avery’s for the night.”

Her eyebrow arches at the obvious implication, her heart rate speeding up all over again. “So we’re alone.”

“Aye.” He takes her hand in his and gives it a gentle tug, his grin strangely shy. “Come. Before dinner gets cold.”

Emma pulls back and glances down at her front with a sheepish chuckle. “Give me a few minutes to change, okay? I know you love this dress, but dinner might be more romantic if I wasn’t wearing something sticky. You can go open some wine. I’ll be right there.” She notes the slight disappointment in Killian’s eyes and the way they flit over the lines of her dress like he’s trying to commit them to memory, and she takes a step closer, feeling the heat creep over her skin when she tips her chin upward to murmur in his ear. “Unless, you know, you’d like to help me out of this thing.”

His face morphs in an instant, one telltale brow leaping upward and his lips parting in that look of hunger and awe that always generates a tingle at the base of her spine. She’s already slipped beyond his grasp and ascended the first few stairs before he regains his wits and hustles to follow. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

He misses one of the steps, and the glimpse she catches of her singularly suave and singularly coordinated pirate nearly face-planting in his haste to follow her causes Emma to burst into giggles, the upstairs hallway ringing with the sound of her laughter.

 

* * *

 

Smee would probably be exasperated to know that they risked letting his wonderful meal grow cold, Killian supposes when he and Emma finally make it back down to the kitchen. A dopey grin curls at his mouth in the afterglow of their not-so-brief activities upstairs, and he relishes the sensation of feeling quite sated despite the embarrassingly loud gurgle that resonates from his stomach as he trails after Emma in his pajamas and bare feet, hair still damp and the pads of his fingers still wrinkled. One glance toward the upper cabinets, however, sends his heart into his throat, and he swallows hard and tries to focus, thinking about the pair of coffee mugs planted inside that together read, “Let’s have coffee together… for the rest of our lives.” _Operation: Put a Ring On It is go_ , he can hear Henry saying.

_Right._

“Oh my God,” Emma chuckles. She adjusts the belt on her midnight blue bathrobe while surveying the handmade ravioli that Smee had the forethought to leave warming in a crock and the picture-perfect apple pie that’s cooling on the counter. “He really went all out.”

Killian hums, swiftly moving toward the refrigerator to pull out the salad and bottle of wine he knows are waiting inside. His eye darts anxiously toward the glimmer of gold champagne foil that just peeks out from behind the milk as he hastily shuts the door. “Smee’s always been a quick learner, and this job at Tony’s seems to agree with him,” he says absently, toting the items to the table. “He was an able pirate, but I daresay he makes a much better chef. Believe me, he gets more excited about cheeses these days than he ever did about anything in the Enchanted Forest.”

Emma grins at the professionally laid dinner table and retrieves the plates to begin loading them up with ravioli. “Well, Tony says he owes me a favor for finding him. He thinks he has a lot of potential. They’re even thinking of writing a cookbook together.” She chuckles, her wooden spoon clinking softly against the cool ceramic. “If he becomes famous, you can tell people you knew him back when he was fencing magic beans.” She throws Killian a playful glance over her shoulder and bites her lip. “Well, maybe not.”

He laughs, rummaging through a drawer to locate the corkscrew. “He’s certainly come a long way.” He meets her halfway to the dinner table and pauses for a quick kiss, favoring the glint in her eye with a sly smile. “I suppose we both have.”

They continue to chat amiably over dinner once Emma finishes groaning and muttering Smee’s praises through her first mouthful of ravioli. It takes a rather heroic effort for Killian to not spend the meal staring at her with a foolish grin plastered on his face. With damp, disheveled locks framing her washed face, her features enhanced by nothing but the healthy flush in her cheeks, and her figure hidden beneath her rumpled, careworn bathrobe, her appearance is a far cry from the splendor of the costume she wore the night they shared True Love’s Kiss, but it matters little. He’s just as enchanted with her now as he was then, especially when she gives a little chuckle and wordlessly holds his napkin out to him to wipe the sauce off his moustache.

“So are you going to tell me what the occasion is?” she asks at last, sitting back and arcing an eyebrow at him over her wine glass.

Her question causes the butterflies in his stomach to stir once again, though his only tell is the anxious way he rubs the side of his curled index finger against the pad of his thumb as he jumps up to go start the coffee maker. “Does a man need an occasion to plan a nice night of dinner and dancing?”

“Dancing?” The pretty frown in her voice is obvious even with his back turned to her. “We’re not exactly dressed to go out anymore.”

“Who said anything about going out?” Killian flashes her a roguish grin and sets the pot beneath the running faucet before he rotates to grab the stereo remote from the center island and aims it toward the living room. Michael Bublé’s smooth baritone suddenly cuts through the air.

_Birds flying high_  
_You know how I feel_  
_Sun in the sky_  
_You know how I feel_  
_Reeds driftin' on by_  
_You know how I feel_  
_It's a new dawn_  
_It's a new day_  
_It's a new life_  
_For me_  
_And I'm feeling good_

Emma’s laugh mixes with the deep brass swells that follow, and she obligingly sets her hand in Killian’s when he comes back over to pull her out of her chair, the sensation of her warm weight falling into his arms an automatic balm to his nerves. He walks her back a few steps toward the living room, and she makes a small sound of playful protest.

“This isn’t a waltz.”

His eyes twinkle as he shakes his head. “No.”

“I don’t know how to dance to this.”

Killian’s chuckle vibrates in his chest beneath her fingers. “Neither do I.” His grin widens as her hands slide up to encircle his neck.

She smirks devilishly. “Don’t I need a partner who knows what he’s doing?” 

“Hmph.” The corners of his eyes pinch in mock offense. “I may not know a formal dance for this song, darling,” he rumbles, pulling her hips flush with his and savoring the sensation as she begins to sway with him, “But believe me, I still know what I’m doing.”

The way her lashes flutter and her cheeks wash a deeper shade of pink is pure magic, and he commits it to memory in the split second it takes for him to lean down and capture her lips with his.

_Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know_  
_Butterflies all havin' fun, you know what I mean_  
_Sleep in peace when the day is done, that's what I mean_  
_And this old world is a new world_  
_And a bold world_  
_For me_  
_For me_

This kiss is soft and slow, and Emma utters a happy sigh when they finally come up for air, the two of them still moving together in time to the patient, heavy beat. She glances down at their bare feet in the carpet and chuckles. “This is kind of like the first time we danced,” she points out. “You know, PJs in the living room.”

“Aye,” he murmurs, head bobbing. “Except I couldn’t kiss you then.” His smile is a little melancholy as of her hands find their way to his jaw, her thumb brushing fondly across his scruff.

“Did you want to?” 

Killian chuffs. “You know I did, love. More than anything. Luckily,” he continues, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, “Fortune saw fit to show me favor, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” she echoes with a sunny grin. “And now you can kiss me whenever you want.”

His expression sobers, and he studies her shining eyes, breath growing shallow. “Promise?”

Emma gives a little laugh and rises on her toes to give him a quick peck. “Promise.”

“Good.” And suddenly he _knows_. The way his heartbeat grows more insistent, the way she’s looking at him. _This is it. This is the moment._ He throws a look toward the kitchen. _Hang the plan._ He clears his throat, dark eyebrows creasing. “In that case, I have something for you.” Emma steps back, puzzled, as he releases her and his fingers disappear into the pocket of his sleep pants to fish out the ring he’s been keeping on his person all day. The round, polished opal encircled with diamonds and rose gold sparkles in the lamplight, and Killian’s smile is watery as he looks down on it and carefully drops onto one knee. “A promise for a promise.” His shimmering blue eyes lift up to her in earnest.

She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Killian…”

His gaze flits nervously over her perfect features. “Swan,” he begins slowly, “Darling, you’re my one true love, and I promise to always, _always_ be by your side.” His heart soars when she gives herself away with a premature nod and a solitary tear, and a chuckle bursts from his chest. “That is, if you’ll have me.”

Emma shudders and hurriedly swipes the moisture from her cheek with the heel of her hand, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath before she reaches for his elbow and pulls him back to his feet. His arms fall back around her waist, and she lovingly palms the angles of his jaw, her face aglow. “Yes,” she sniffles. “Yes, I will.”

He can feel her trembling when she kisses him, as though her happiness can barely be contained, and Killian wonders if he’s ever known so much joy in one moment as he does now. A lifetime with Emma Swan, protecting her, loving her, making her smile – no reward he’d ever dreamt of when he first when looking for the battered compass that now sits in a place of honor on the bookshelf could compare.

They both laugh when they get to the business of actually putting the ring on her finger, and Emma’s eyes grow round with her first good look at it. “Is that…?”

“A piece of the Sea Star,” he says with a quiet grin. “I found it snagged in what was left of the old carpet when we were tearing it out. As far as I can tell, it’s the only bit that didn’t get sucked back through the portal.” He runs his thumb reverently over the stone’s smooth surface. “I kept it as a reminder of how we found each other, and once I started thinking about a ring, well…” He shrugs, a flicker of anxiety in his stomach once more. “I understand large diamonds are more traditional in this realm, but Henry thought you’d like it.” Relief washes over him when he looks up to see her on the verge of tears again.

“I _love_ it,” Emma murmurs, settling her left hand on his chest and sliding the fingers of her right hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. “And I love you.”

Killian leans forward to press his lips to her forehead. “I love you too.”

A telltale beep sounds, and he glances toward the kitchen with a sheepish smile. “There’s the coffee. Or we have champagne, if you prefer. Smee insisted.”

“Why am I not surprised the three of you were in on this together?” She chuckles.

He shrugs. “A captain needs a crew. Operation: Put a Ring On It, Henry called it, though I will admit that the original plan involved proposing over coffee and pie.”

“Oh, _I_ see. You were going to exploit my weakness for pie.” 

The grin on his face stretches to his ears. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt.” He nuzzles her hair with his nose. “Shall we? I can show you the special mugs we got for the occasion.”

“Mm. Later,” she breathes, her smile turning impish as she rises up on her toes to kiss him again, her lips brushing softly across his skin. “Right now, I just want to dance with you.”

He draws her closer and rumbles contentedly. “As the lady wishes.”

They rock together to the strains of jazz standards until long after the coffee has cooled, the lamp casting their combined shadow across the shaded windows and out into the New York night. And Killian marvels that even though all of this – the city, the technology, the music, the clothes, the food, this home – though all of it was so entirely foreign to him just months ago, he’s never felt such a profound sense of belonging as he does here, in the arms of the woman who was perhaps always meant to be his North Star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Feeling Good (Michael Bublé)_
> 
> _Birds flying high_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _Sun in the sky_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _Reeds driftin' on by_   
>  _You know how I feel_
> 
> _It's a new dawn_   
>  _It's a new day_   
>  _It's a new life_   
>  _For me_   
>  _And I'm feeling good_   
>  _I'm feeling good_
> 
> _Fish in the sea_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _River running free_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _Blossom on the tree_   
>  _You know how I feel_
> 
> _It's a new dawn_   
>  _It's a new day_   
>  _It's a new life_   
>  _For me_   
>  _And I'm feeling good_
> 
> _Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know_   
>  _Butterflies all havin' fun, you know what I mean_   
>  _Sleep in peace when the day is done, that's what I mean_   
>  _And this old world is a new world_   
>  _And a bold world_   
>  _For me_   
>  _For me_
> 
> _Stars when you shine_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _Scent of the pine_   
>  _You know how I feel_   
>  _Oh freedom is mine_   
>  _And I know how I feel_
> 
> _It's a new dawn_   
>  _It's a new day_   
>  _It's a new life_   
>  _It's a new dawn_   
>  _It's a new day_   
>  _It's a new life_
> 
> _It's a new dawn_   
>  _It's a new day_   
>  _It's a new life_   
>  _It's a new life_   
>  _For me_
> 
> _And I'm feeling good_   
>  _I'm feeling good_   
>  _I'm feeling so good_   
>  _I feel so good_


End file.
